My wife (The Little Red-Haired Girl to you “regular” readers”) and I had our first date a few years ago on Valentine’s Day.
O.K., more than a decade and a half ago.
It’s a rough go having your first date on Feb. 14. There’s the pressure of keeping it simple, since it’s all new. But there’s the pressure of Valentine’s Day, because, it’s, well, VALENTINE’S DAY. Every single, 20-something DIES for a date on Valentine’s Day. So to actually have one is HUGE. Or so I’ve been told.
I’m going to sound like an ass for saying this, but after turning 16 I was rarely without a date on Feb. 14. I’m kind of outgoing, was somewhat cute once I hit my stride (more on the awkward years later) and actually enjoyed relationships. So Valentine’s Day was right up my alley.
I think of those Valentine’s Days sometimes. With the ones that didn’t work out, or got away (or I got away), and smile.
Eight years of Valentine’s Day dates after my very first one ever (I’m pretty sure I was single for a couple of them), I found the right girl. Even after I dropped marina sauce on my wool sweater, and even after I said some pretty boneheaded things in the dates that followed that very first one, I hit it out of the park.
Some people will say there’s no magic to Feb. 14. That it’s just another day. Or they boycott the thing entirely.
I guess I’ll always love it. Since it led me here. To my real Valentine. All these years after that very first date.
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