Not a turtledove in sight
While the returns didn’t go out until Monday (and the post office wasn’t open anyway), I did my taxes on Valentine’s Day, and that’s about as romantic as I get, given the perennial lack of entries on my dance card.
Which is not to say that couples always have it easy:
I spent a gray afternoon sitting on the couch editing a novel for a vanity publisher, while my significant other spent the day at a science fiction convention in Boston.
Although this wasn’t their worst V-Day by any means:
[T]hat honor goes to the first Valentine’s Day we lived together, a Friday night, when I sat home alone while he took another woman out on a date. (Granted, the woman in question had my blessing; she was a friend of mine serving as Maid of Honor at another woman’s wedding, and needed my boyfriend for the obligatory male escort on her arm. To thank me, she gave me a nice Swarovski crystal figurine for my collection, and when people ask about my romantic history I tell them “Oh, yeah, our first Valentine’s Day together I pimped out my boyfriend for crystal crap.”)
Not everyone can say that.
