Love is Strange

Ms. Rachow’s play list includes “Love Me Do,” “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” and “All We Need is Love.”

My watch is older than Brad Pitt, so when the battery dies, I decide it’s time to go shopping. A new timepiece and a few other strategic purchases might help our economy get out of the tank. Seems to me it’s my patriotic duty to go out there and do what I can.

My husband, who’s also older than Brad Pitt, says, “I want to come along.”

I suspect he’s been feeling a little guilty about skipping the all the Valentine’s Day falderal this year. Or maybe he’s noticed I’ve been mentioning Brad Pitt quite a lot lately.

Perhaps it’s another one of those pitfalls of a sagging economy, but I’ve heard from several other women that their sweethearts also skipped the flowers this year. Not that we women need to be showered with gifts. The truth is a scribbled “Roses are Red” poem would do it for most of us.

In the car, I share these women’s stories with my spouse, so he won’t feel he’s the only man on earth who wishes Hallmark’s powerful tail didn’t try so hard to wag love’s dog.

He listens in silence, so I say, “What do you think a guy should do for his sweetheart on Valentine’s?”

“Is that a trick question?” he asks.

“No,” I lie.

“Well, a man ought to buy his love roses, jewelry, chocolate, lingerie, a romantic card, and then take her out to fabulous dinner.”

“So what’s a woman supposed to do for her guy?” I ask.

“She should plan to make him a great dinner that will be ruined by his invitation to take her out. And then over dinner she needs to find some fault with each of his gifts for her. You know, the chocolate should have been dark, the lingerie should have been red, and so on.”

“Hmmm…I think I’m beginning to understand why you guys hate V-Day so much.”

We could dig deeper into why the violets are so blue, but we’ve arrived at the store. What marketing genius decided to put the watch display smack dab in the middle of the perfume department? The wallop of fragrance that hits us as we enter is like trying to shop while hugging my aunts Millie and Maude.

We can only hold our breath for so long. That might be plenty of time to pick a watch, however it isn’t nearly long enough to find a clerk. Apparently the way the store pays for these gigantic markdowns is by skipping the sales staff.

Between sneezes my husband says, “Let’s go upstairs. Maybe they have oxygen up there.”
I nod, and we head for the escalator. It’s been months since I shopped for clothes, and last time was a disaster. Then all the tops looked like maternity wear, and I wasn’t yet used to everyone walking around looking like an Octomom.

As I scan the racks, sizing up the possibilities, I pray the designers have finally come to their senses. I try to stay calm and think if I don’t expect much, I won’t be disappointed.

“Is it my imagination or is every other garment apple green?” I hold up a chunky jacket the color of a Granny Smith. “What do they expect us to do with this?” I don’t care who hears me.

“Darling, you’re making a scene.”

“Scene, schmene. Somebody has to stand up for good taste.”

“Let’s head over to the linens department,” he says in his most soothing voice. “I seem to remember our bath towels are getting a bit raggedy.” He nudges me toward house wares, and there we began the hunt for the perfect towels.

They say April’s the cruelest month, but I say it’s February. And not just because it begins with dragging that poor groundhog out of his cozy burrow. And not just because mid-February is fraught with high hopes of romance that are so often dashed when life doesn’t turn out to be the picture book we long for. The genuinely cruel part of February comes after all that, when we swim the murky waters of true love without a greeting card to show us the way.

We search high and low, but the right towel doesn’t come in the right color, and the one that is the right color isn’t the right towel.

“How can you tell the difference?” he asks.

“I can tell,” I say.

“And that’s exactly why I love you,” he says.

Love is strange, but it’s still a many splendored thing.

First published in the Montecito Journal February 26, 2009