She’s all for love, but a bunch of flowers will never beat everyday acts of kindness
I’m a happily married woman, so it may be surprising to hear I can get cynical about Valentine’s Day. Crazy, because I’m in the ultimate demographic marketers rely on to turn February red to February black.
How do I know I help carry the water for Cupid? Last week I was in that home goods store — the one where you can buy heart-shaped word pillows and crimson candles and cherub printed tablecloths.
The one that pushes each holiday months before the impending one has been celebrated. (I regard the place as the pumpkin-dishtowels-before-the-Fourth-of-July retailer.) That day I was near the front of the impulse purchase shelving maze that funnels shoppers to the registers. Something made me turn completely around to see who else was lined up there. It was a crowd of me: all women around my age with puffed up carts and puffer coats.
The economy would collapse without us.
The intention behind Valentine’s Day is just fine: to show your love to the people you love. And we do need to celebrate everything as much as possible in the middle of our icy winters. I just get uncomfortable with the social pressure to express one’s heart on one specific day. Especially with the backdrop of ever-escalating commercial profiteering.
Also, it bothers me to know there are folks with sweet expectations who get left behind or disappointed, or who are reminded of grief and loss. One person’s red glitter shedding off a greeting card is another person’s tears. Don’t know what to do about all that, except to get on the verb train.
“Love is a verb.”
Either Oprah or self-help guru Stephen Covey (but more likely a wise person who lived centuries ago) coined the verb phrase. I think that’s an accurate little declaration. It’s our actions on ordinary days that matter, not the February 14 grab-’n’-go box of chocolates frenzy.
Isn’t love seeded in ordinary day existence that builds and builds? Isn’t it handing a hurting person a steaming cup of tea, or traveling a great distance to soothe a soul, or showing up to a child’s bone-chilling soccer practice? For me, sometimes it’s cracking an inside joke in the middle of a life storm. Crocheting a wobbly but cozy blanket for a family member. Even picking up a rogue rock on a sidewalk so a stranger 10 minutes into the future doesn’t trip on it.
To me, love springs from cumulative acts of kindness, respect and understanding. It’s even prioritizing silliness, especially during these stressful, baffling times. Now let me coin a phrase: Without laughter, we’re all screwed.
And for those who are feeling a little lost this month, consider Miley Cyrus’ current hit song titled “Flowers.” It has a timely message worth considering: “I can buy myself flowers/Write my name in the sand/Talk to myself for hours/Say things you don’t understand/I can take myself dancing/And I can hold my own hand.” When the going gets tough, we can toss the expectations. Put on the oxygen mask first. Be your own verb, I guess.
But sorry about one detail, Miley.
In keeping with my grump theme, I’m also mixed about fresh cut flowers. Pretty on day one and a sweet gesture, even to oneself, yet I always look to day seven and the CPR efforts in between. Where’s the tiny powder packet and does it really work? I just don’t trust that rose food. Should I trim the petrified stems on an angle now, or in two days? Did I freshen the water enough? Maintenance, maintenance, then inevitable wilting.
What I’m asking is, how long ‘til St. Patrick’s Day? I have no complaints for that holiday. And I know exactly where to buy shamrock placemats.
Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com