On Valentine’s Day Logistics

We’ve been trying to decide what to do about Valentine’s Day.

At one point I mentioned that the upscale place on the square has good food. When we’re allowed to order from the actual menu, I’ve always been quite satisfied — properly satisfied, even. On days when they have a set menu, not so much.

It’s always the same formula: salad, vegetables, a potato or rice dish, main, dessert, beverage. Of those, I can count on two being gluten safe, three if I’m lucky. Never the main. Never the dessert. The cost, depending on the occasion, hovers between $60 and $90 per person, plus tip.

It’s a remarkable amount of money to spend on food I cannot eat.

So if we can order off menu, great. If not...

Last Saturday he told me he had secured reservations there for Valentine’s Day.

I’m on their email list. I had already seen the advertisement: Beef Wellington and a rich chocolate cake. Both very much not gluten free.

The reservations were canceled.

Meanwhile, I’d been getting ads for a place in New Ulm. We’ve never been there, but it’s only twenty minutes away, which in Texas terms qualifies as “next door.” (When we visited family in Salt Lake City, I learned they operate on a similar measurement system there.)

The ads mentioned lobster.

I am not a fan of lobster. Lobster, as far as I can tell, is an extremely expensive vehicle for transporting garlic butter. Still, lobster suggests an establishment. White tablecloths. Intentional lighting. Chairs that do not wobble.

Further investigation revealed that it is, in fact, a bar that serves food on special occasions.

We are not in search of “special occasions.”

He suggested we could take in a movie.

I did not respond.

There followed a long pause, during which we both appeared to be thinking. I don’t know what his thoughts were. Mine drifted toward the general strangeness of this holiday.

I am expected to dress in uncomfortable clothing, go to an uncomfortable place, sit in an uncomfortable chair, and eat uncomfortable food. I will then either lie politely about my satisfaction — which makes me uncomfortable — or tell the truth — which makes him uncomfortable. And for all of this layered discomfort, we will be charged an impressively uncomfortable amount of money.

Eventually, practicality reasserted itself.

I suggested that perhaps we simply declare our love for one another and demonstrate it by not spending a small fortune.