Valentine’s weekend is almost over.  I used to detest Valentine’s Day, never mind weekend.

The pressure I put on myself to fit into the perfect cookie cutter valentine and somehow pull off the vision of commercial love on a personal level. What happened to the classroom story of St. Valentine and drizzling hot toffee on the snow? That’s all behind me, the pressure of being the perfect valentine and toffee on the snow.

I look forward to Valentine’s weekend. It’s a great excuse to celebrate weekend-long self-love.  But who’s kidding, isn’t that every weekend, every weekday?

Who cares, this is a Valentine’s weekend post and those are just semantics 🙂

I have good memories of the few boys who’ve made an attempt at making my Valentine’s day special. Perhaps not quite leaving the mark they were attempting.

My favourite being the year I wore jeans and an old sweatshirt for the big night out. I am not sure if the reason for my continued amusement is that I found this man’s obsessions peculiar; from his annoyance that he’d only dated 1 girl before me, (which seemed to consume him each time we hung out), his penchant for walking around his place half-dressed while I sat amongst his mess waiting for him to burn his skin with his fried eggs, or maybe it was his “come-back” two years later when I couldn’t escape fast enough from the thoughtful home-cooked meal he put together for me – I wasn’t ready for his attentiveness.

However, the real reason I smile so wildly today at the thought of this bygone valentine, is the gift he gave me.

I remember the smell of his cologne, his shy handsome smile and light kiss he left on my cheek when he gifted me a plant. The plant died, the love never did bloom and the nice shiny red vase has since made the journey to Sweden. It is sitting comfortably on a window sill enjoying Scandinavian Valentine’s.

This memory will forever bring out a smile and remind me of my 20’s.