If you’ve known me awhile, you’ll know that I’m not a fan of Valentine’s Day. I’m not anti-love or romance, far from it (how could any Gen Xer raised on Lloyd Dobler standing outside with a boombox not be a little sappy about romance?). I just think love should be about the little things we do for one another daily, not all lumped into a once-a-year-gesture. Plus, I refuse to go out on Valentine’s Day because I think it’s entirely possible an employee, bitter at being scheduled on what has got to be the worst night of the year for servers, will spit in my mushroom risotto.
Some of my Valentine’s Day cynicism spilled over to Corinne, and the following is my original attempt to bring Corinne’s complicated relationship with love and romance to light. Enjoy!
I was born on February 15th. Having a birthday around a holiday was frustrating, to say the least. Yes, the kids with Christmas birthdays had it the worst, but at least Christmas birthdays came with the assumption of gifts and a day off for festivities. The day after Valentine's day was a celebratory no man's land. You didn't get the day off from work or school, and everyone was either too over-sugared and tapped out from the night before or, alternately, too bitter and resentful to get in the mood for another party. My mother always did her best to make February 15th special; however, frugality meant that my party decorations, favors, and gift wrappings were always heart-themed, purchased the morning of my birthday when all seasonal decorations went on clearance.
I understood at a very early age that my birthday was Valentine's Day's sloppy seconds. In kindergarten, I brought in frosted chocolate cupcakes (covered in candy hearts) for the class, and Tim Gordon threw up all over the sharing circle, as well as Linda Yaeger, who was sitting next to him. I never brought birthday treats to school again. My birthday was celebrated in muted tones. A family party consisting of me, Mom, and Dad (with Beth replacing Dad in later years) and a party with friends scheduled a tasteful week later, giving everyone a chance to recover (and their stomachs time to settle).
Nick was the first person outside my family to treat my birthday as its own unique occasion. The night of my eighteenth birthday, he'd packed a picnic of crackers and cheese, which we ate under the stars in the back of his uncle's flatbed truck. It was our first visit to what would become "our" spot at Clemmons Dam. I wore long underwear under my best Guess jeans and my heaviest sweater. Bundled in coats, hats, gloves, and boots, we cuddled under his uncle's camouflage sleeping bag, which he used in deer hunting season. Nick produced a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill, which we drank straight from the bottle, passing it back and forth. The wine was chilled and made me shiver. We kissed between sips, and Nick chafed my gloved hands in his. When he tried to put a hand up my sweater, I yelped at the frigid air hitting my skin. He pulled back in surprise and started to laugh.
"This is hopeless. Let's get in the truck."
The truck cab smelled like cigarettes and sawdust and something metallic that might have been animal blood. But it was warm, and I was with Nick. He removed two small packages from the glove compartment, wrapped in plain butcher paper. I was so touched that he hadn't used Valentine-themed paper that my eyes filled instantly.
"Hey now," he said, chucking me gently on the chin. "None of that. Here," he handed one of the packages to me. "This one first."
I unwrapped an empty cassette tape case. "I had to open it," he apologized, "to forward to the right song." He reached behind his seat and pulled out a small cassette player. He pressed "Play," and the cab filled with Depeche Mode’s “Somebody.” We sat silently, listening. By the time the music faded, my tears were falling freely, running down my face and into my scarf. I burrowed my head, trying to wipe them away.
"That was beautiful," I managed. "Thank you."
"You're beautiful," he insisted, tracing the tracks of my tears with his thumb. "Open your other present."
Inside the second box sat a black leather tie bracelet with a single blue ceramic bead. "Oh, Nick! I love it!" He tied it onto my wrist and kissed my hand. "Thank you."
"Happy birthday, my beautiful maiden."