Happy Valentines Day!
Or, you know, whatever.
I've never been one to celebrate this holiday. The husband and I have enough trouble remembering to celebrate our wedding anniversaries on a semi-yearly basis. We don't think we have to show our love [or whatever someone would diagnose this as] through gifts of flowers or candy or jewelry. I like cut flowers, but the cats fuck with them, and I'm too paranoid I'll get hives from touching them to enjoy them. We're both working on eating healthier, so candy is out [although I did purchase a fuck-ton of Girl Scout Cookies, which we sent to the girl. Except for the box of Samoas.], and we're too poor to purchase the jewelry I'm interested in.
This is not to say we're not romantic. However, our definition of romance is more often twisted. To wit:
If we're going somewhere, the husband will see what I'm wearing and then wear a matching outfit. We saw a couple many years ago wearing matching track suits. Not an old couple. A couple near our age. MATCHING. TRACK SUITS. They were not part of Run-DMC, nor were they members of an Olympic team. They were an average suburban couple, wearing those plastick-y track suits. And the guy was wearing a turtleneck under his.
Where the fuck was I going with this?
Anyway, as our private inside joke, the husband often will wear a matching outfit. They aren't always exactly the same - for example, we may both be wearing corduroys, but they'll be different colors - but they are the same enough so that we can share a laugh about how ridiculous we look, knowing that everyone else will think we're a dorky middle-aged suburban couple wearing matching outfits, but WE ALREADY KNOW THAT AND THAT'S WHY WE'RE DOING IT.
It's very meta.
It's also very fun, knowing that someone loves me enough to look foolish with me, and also loves me enough to do something he knows will make me laugh.
Because laughter is the best medicine.
Wait. That's . . . eh, you know what? I'm making him take me to Sonic.