Wherein I make DearDR prove his love for me. Or he proves that he is a patient, patient man.
So we’ve established why, exactly, I am not crazy about Valentine’s Day.
Fast forward to February 2000. DearDR and I have been dating for about four months. DearDR (and he will tell you this himself) is head over heels for me.
He wants to do something for Valentine’s Day. I go through my whole song-and-dance about why I don’t do Valentine’s Day, and it’s just a Hallmark holiday, and we shouldn’t pay any mind.
DearDR completely ignores me. “We’re going out,” he says.
“Fine,” I huff. “But we’re going to do what I want to do.”
So I took him to see the Pittsburgh premiere of the Vagina Monologues at CMU.
Now, if you’re not familiar with the Vagina Monologues by Eve Ensler, it is exactly what it sounds like: a number of monologues about the vagina, all performed by women.
Yes, I made my boyfriend sit through a play about bajingos, va-jay-jays, lady business — because Dave Boore broke up with me on Valentine’s Day in 1983.
We weren’t even having green beans at the time.
And he still asked me to marry him.
Later that evening we shared some wine at Casbah and just talked. After that, he twirled me into his arms on the sidewalk outside and gave me a kiss I felt all the way to my toes.
Is it any wonder I said yes?
Happy Valentine’s Day, DearDR. I love you.