My children and the two hundred commercials I have seen for Vermont Teddy Bears recently have reminded me that Valentine's day is upon us.
I don't really "do" Valentine's day, and that's okay. Other people like it and get chocolate and sexy things and flowers and stuff. And that's okay too. I just don't care about it.
Someone I know is cheating on their wife, which is sort of what prompted my post from yesterday. I was thinking about this person and his sorry ass on my way home from work.
I wasn't really thinking about HIM necessarily. Mostly, and I guess this is pretty telling about me, I was confused about how anyone has the time, energy, and desire to cheat on anyone else.
See, I love my husband.
It is exhausting to love my husband.
I don't think it's him, either. I really don't. Maybe I'm a hugely selfish jerk, but it is so hard to be thoughtful of someone else all the time. Really? When I come home? I want to sit on my butt and watch reruns of Law and Order. I want to pop a bag of popcorn and eat it for dinner. I want to spend hours on the computer and not do the dishes.
You know what I do when I come home?
Well, it's not any of that. It's things like fixing dinner and thinking about where I can buy Jason socks for his birthday. And neither one of those things is any fun, at all.
But I love him. So I do these things.
I cannot imagine voluntarily making another man dinner. Or buying him socks or shaving his back or listening to him sing things like, "You are the Chick that I love! You are the Chick that I love!" (Except he says my real name. It would just be stupid if he called me Chick). I cannot imagine coaching anyone else through job troubles or having to have deep conversations about the future with more than one person. Just having to do all these things with one person? Wears. My. Rear. End. Out.
So. Jason never has to worry about me cheating, I suppose. I'm lazy.
Also? I love him and stuff.