Let’s talk about February. The month of hearts, roses, and relationship expectations so high even Romeo and Juliet would’ve needed couples counseling. Valentine’s Day shows up like that overachieving PTA mom with personalized goodie bags and a themed photo backdrop, while the rest of us are just trying to remember if we bought the card or not.
Somewhere in my past, there was a time when February meant mystery dates, last-minute floral deliveries, and hopeful dinner reservations. Now? It means one of us asks the other if we remembered to cancel that unused streaming service before the next billing cycle.
Don’t get me wrong—I love my spouse. We’ve got a rhythm that works. But February has a way of making even the most solid relationships feel like they’re not doing enough. Instagram is full of matching pajama photos and men writing “open letters” to their wives like they’re accepting a Grammy. Meanwhile, I’m over here asking if she wants to split a footlong sub and watch the weather channel.
I once bought a “heart-shaped” pizza for Valentine’s. It looked more like a deformed kidney, but I added a candle and called it romance. She rolled her eyes, but I caught her smiling. That’s the kind of love I’ve come to appreciate—the kind that laughs at your effort without dismissing it.
And don’t even get me started on the commercials. Every ad tells us love looks like diamonds, tropical getaways, and couples who wake up in crisp white sheets looking fully moisturized and well-rested. I wake up looking like I fought a raccoon in my sleep—and lost.
Then there’s the “Galentine’s” parties, the TikToks of surprise proposals, and the teenage couples aggressively PDA-ing in public like they invented love. I saw a young couple at Target last week arguing over throw pillows, and I nearly applauded. That’s real. That’s commitment.
You know what nobody advertises? Love that keeps going when it’s boring. Love that gets groceries, changes the oil, and goes to parent-teacher conferences. Love that folds your socks the way you like. Love that holds your hand in the hospital, cleans up your messes, and reminds you to take your vitamins.
My back hurts. My knees pop. And sometimes our “romantic getaway” is sitting in the car in silence outside the pharmacy while we both avoid going inside. And you know what? I’m grateful.
Because after all the Valentine hype fades and the last chocolate has been eaten (alone, in the pantry, so you don’t have to share), what’s left is something better than flowers or fancy dinners. What’s left is the quiet, stubborn love that endures.
We’ve seen each other at our worst and chosen each other anyway. We’ve missed dinner reservations, argued over dumb stuff, and fallen asleep before the credits roll. But we’ve also grown something real—something that doesn’t need a reservation or a hashtag to be special.
So yes, I’m grumpy. I miss the days when a card and a back rub made me feel like Casanova. Now I’m more like Captain Compression Socks. But I’m grateful. Because the longer I live, the more I realize: the love that lasts isn’t loud. It’s faithful. It’s present. It’s showing up, again and again, even when it’s not easy.
This February, let the roses wilt and the chocolate melt. Give me love with laugh lines, old habits, inside jokes, and a shared calendar. That’s real. That’s romance. And that’s more than enough.