Infertility and its sadistic treatments have a way of gnawing at your relationship like a sewer rat. (Okay, not a pretty visual... But I miss my NYC so much.) So at this blog, we're doing: "Valentine's Month" to repair all the damage. It's like Botox for your heart.
The key to a decent Valentine's Month, I think, is having a decent Valentine. If you have a loser Valentine who says all the right things, buys all the right gifts, and takes you to all the right places, do the math: Mr/Ms. Loser + Right words + Right gifts + Right restaurant = Mr./Ms. Loser.
However: Mr./Ms. Good Person + Valentine's Date that went awry = Mr./Ms. Good Person + A few hours of your life that went awry... and oh have I had my share of both.
The reason the math turns out this way on my calculator is because sometimes good guys or girls have the best intentions to make your Valentine's Day great and it just doesn't work out through no fault of their own. Sometimes it's through the fault of a lousy restaurateur. And on Valentine's Day lousy restaurateurs often become greedy restaurateurs.
A couple of years ago my husband made reservations for dinner at a local restaurant that we'd been meaning to try. The place was, I'd like to say "dimly lit" or "romantic atmosphere" but the place was frkn dark. I spent half the dinner calling to my husband: "Are you still there?" We held hands the whole time not out of affection as much as sheer necessity. If a waiter had accidentally bumped into the table and knocked one of us under it, the other one would have just kept on eating unaware that their Valentine was on the floor unconscious.
The entire room was filled with teeny tables for two that, in my opinion, were a little too close for comfort to one another for anything with the possible exception of speed dating. And when I say teeny tables: It looked liked they took one normal one and sawed it into sixty doll house ones.
We were the first to arrive. So here the entire room is empty and they sit us just below the service station that was ready to go with plates brimming with olives, garlic, and mounds of feta cheese all perched about six inches from the top of my head. I'm pretty sure this isn't what's meant by "head cheese". Taking the high road, my husband suggested we just slide over to the next table, a mere half a bread-stick away.
Then in came the second couple. In this sea of empty nothingness, I give you one guess where they were seated... Right. At the feta cheese-head table. So here we are, trying to eat appetizers and all I feel is this woman's elbow making nice-nice with my elbow. In the black abyss, I have no idea if this woman is coming on to me or just eating lefty.
Finally, enough is enough. We call the manager over, curious to know if he also was dimly lit. Even in the blackness, I could see from across the room it would be futile. Anytime you see a guy over 40 wearing tight leather pants, it's over. We asked if we couldn't possibly be seated at a different table.
He explained to us and the other couple (I think they were still there. Did I mention it was a mite dark?) that we couldn't sit at any of the other fifty-eight available tables because they were, each and every last one of them, reserved.
Smart...Let's inconvenience the four schmucks who showed up, to accommodate a hundred and sixteen phantom guests who may have decided twenty minutes ago to just stay in and watch a movie.
So up we got and left hand-in-hand.
The point is, I guess...I'm still with my same great Valentine and I don't even remember the name of Leather Boy or his feta hair salon. Obviously infertility is more frustrating and a whole lot more important than a dinner out, but I think the principle is the same: If you've got a great love in your life, you can get through it, one aggravation at a time...Most important, always remember to walk away from each aggravation hand-in-hand.
Thanks for stopping by. Talk with you again soon!
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