Smell the roses

Our first Valentine's was so low-key that it was almost sketchy. Totally my fault. I issued Blake a serious prior warning weeks ahead of time that I desired no grand romantic gestures on that very day. No flowers. No candle-lit dinner. No exotic chocolate. And no reservation.

Who is this PERSON?!

A. Alien.

B. Hater.

C. Dunno. Don't think I know her.

Or maybe-just maybe-because I was trying to rebel against consumerism (what?). I think the Valentine's is yet another pretext to force people to spend beyond their means. While forbidding Blake to pledge allegiance to the over-spending national anthem, I ran a research on the popular restaurants in town. Not only were they all booked out as if it were a time of Soviet food rationing, but also the prix fixe menu was a big fat crime against humanities.

In my rare moments, I started to sympathize with the male population, the unsung slaves who are supposed to pick up the bill whenever wherever, shower girls with attention and gifts, and go all out for the short-lived romance on steroid.

No thanks. I prefer to preserve the financial sanity of my man on a grad school budget. Even just for a day.

Instead, we watched the winter Olympics and ate frozen dumplings. Out of excruciating self-restraint, Blake unveiled a modest but lovely gift: a grey H&M beanie hauled from Minnesota.

I wore that beanie more than any other hat I have ever owned. The last time I was spotted with that item was in April. Tucson April.

Since this boy entered my life, every day has become a fiesta. He is indeed a mountain of light, a fountain of inspiration, illuminating and hydrating my dull, foreign, overly academic existence.

Like the time he hand picked a tube of bath bombs when he was in a solar conference in Vegas.

Like the time he ordered The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom so that I could have a fun read while he was away in Chile.

Like the time he taught me how to play tennis and picked up the scattering uncaught balls after a lazy and very unprofessional me.

Like the time he risked his life teaching me how to drive and texted me on my first day of navigating my way in this world on a vehicle, alone.

Like the time he took me to see the documentary Babies and hanged in there as the only ♂, like a champ.

Like the time he adjusted the helmet for me before goat-carting. (*Update: no correction. You say tomato. I say tomahto.)

Like the time he found 25 versions of Carol of the Bells because I told him I loved this song.

Like the time he brought me to the woods he grew up in and walked down the path he remembered.

Like the time he cut his hair, my dad's hair, and then my hair.

Like the time he made me barbeque for dinner and then we watched lots and lots of Steven Colbert together.

And just like today, he bought home a bundle of delight and told me to smell the roses so that I will never ever have nightmares about the wedding.

Oh gosh, I love this man. Very very much so.

I promise I will refrain from clicking on living horrors called over-the-top wedding blogs from now on.