Hopefully, you're not in a vendetta with your special someone. Hopefully, you're headed out for a night on the town or, if that's not your thing, then cozying up for a quiet night in. Even if you're not coupled up, I wish you no Hatfield vs. McCoy-style feuds whatsoever. Because V-Day should come with all the peace of devouring chocolate on a cloud of pink couch or comforter. (Not that your couch or bed can't be blue or green or gray. But I'm trying to paint a picture here.) That said, I had to kiss a real frog of a chore before tearing into my own treats today. This afternoon, the husband and I went to the dermatologist for our annual skin scans. Because nothing says romance like disrobing in front of strangers. Not that we have any real epidermis issues; we go because it's always good to be one step ahead of Mad Man Melanoma.
Thankfully, our Valentine's Day isn't all lab coats and copays (partly because we don't have a copay, but rather a deductible). We're going out to dinner later this weekend, which is a long one courtesy of those wig heads Washington and Lincoln. (Yes, I know only Washington had a wig. But Lincoln had that beard, which was pretty gnarly and has to count for something.) Afterwards, I'm looking forward to a choice chocolate chaser. Because Valentine's Day is the candy holiday. Wait, what's that you say? The candy holiday is Halloween? Or, on a good year, even Easter? Well . . . maybe. If you're into Baby Ruths and bipedal bunnies. But only V-Day has pink and red foil wrappers and cherry and strawberry filling and heart-shaped Russell Stover boxes full of Forrest Gump flavors.
Because that's life in a (hazel) nutshell: diving in without checking the cheat sheet. Or the nutrition facts. Nutrition facts are the worst, the Flag Day of facts. Nothing against flags. But they don't give you gifts or sugar or a day off.
So, have a happy un-Flag Day. May you do -- and eat -- all the things that you heart. And all the things that heart you.