Joyeuse Saint Valentin

Having been a single girl for more years than I'd like to admit to, I'm well aware of the animosity that stems from these two dreaded words: "Valentine's Day".

Having a Valentine of my own this year has made me change my tune a bit.  I suddenly found it charming rather than hostile seeing men carry red long-stem roses in grocery bags back to their girlfriends on their way home from work.  The people out on the streets in Grenoble all weekend handing out pre-written love letters for a euro, I've learned, are really just ambassadors of peace rather than of ill-will.  And saying "joyeuse Saint Valentin" (joy-oos san val-en-ton: Happy Valentine's Day!) seems to have a special ring to it, seeing as my own Valentin had white roses (my favorite!), chocolates, and French champagne delivered to me just for our own romantic breakfast-in-bed Skype date on Valentine's morning.

Then, on 14 février (ka-torz fehv-ree-ay), I woke up.  Andrew was in mourning (his grandpa just passed away), I was sick, we were 6,000 miles away from each other, plus j'ai eu la geule de bois (j-aye oo lah gool duh bwa: I was hungover).  Mix them together, let fester until 8:00 in the morning, and you get a dish of disaster, best served cold.  Word to the wise: never drink wine and Monacos (beer with a healthy dash of grenadine syrup) on the same night.  You'll regret it, especially if you have a romantic date set-up with your copain (ko-pan: boyfriend) the next morning.

My morning of amour (uh-moor: romance) quickly turned into one of those dreaded, tear-filled, gut-wrenching fights only couples who truly love each other could have.  The whole thing felt a bit too française (frahn-says: French): this story of two young lovers dramatically deuling it out on the one day of the year when Hallmark cards practically command us to stare lovingly into each other's eyes.  With all the pressure involved by restaurants and chocolate companies to make Valetine's Day the perfect day, as a single girl I never realized how hard couples actually have it on February 14th.  Maybe I cracked under the pressure, and amid a pile of papier-mouchoir (pahp-ee-ay moosh-wa: Kleenex) and a tear-stained pillow, I came to a bit more difficultly-saught realization about love and my lover.

Maybe Andrew's and my day didn't fall into the stereotypical love fest of candlelight and compliments, but what it did do was bring us into a better realm of compréhension (komp-re-hencion:  understanding).  Sure, the timing could have been better but the outcome would have always been the same: despite our imperfections, frustrations, and annoying habits, Andrew and I are here for each other.  Even though I'll always wish I could be a better Valentine/copaine/personne (Valentine/girlfriend/person), being in love isn't about being perfect and buying the most romantic gift, but about being realistic, honest, and sincere no matter what day of the year it is.  At least, I think that's what I read in a Hallmark card once...