I chuckled twice yesterday in response to others’ rather
cynical pragmatic view of Valentine’s Day. Someone referred to the commercialization of Valentine’s Day as the “Valentine’s Industrial Complex.” I considered that characterization brilliant as I allowed a little free-market chuckle. The other was the renaming of it. “Relationship Predicament Awareness Day” almost induced a chortle. Chortle versus chuckle? Think of the Spinal Tap amplifier. Chuckle goes to “ten”. Chortle, you guessed it; eleven.”
R.P.A. day applies to everyone. Those who’ve been married for decades, those amidst the early phase…maybe six to nine months-ish… of a mutually intriguing relationship that’s fraught with great long-term potential as well as those who are rather early…maybe two months… into an encounter so that the future of said connection remains speculative. The Valentine’s gift selection process for that last group becomes excruciatingly onerous. A jewel encrusted bauble may denote intent about which the giver isn’t yet confident. More practical gifts…offerings that reflect sincere deliberation but remain rather Switzerland like in subplot and meaning (think toasters and iTunes gift certificates) usually go over like a heavy a_s brick.
Now that I think of it, I could use a new toaster. We got no budget for one however. The Cleverley bespoke shoe experience, about which I’ve still yet to fully write, sucked enough of my walking around money to finance a gaggle of toasters. At least eleven.
Oh, and there’s another R.P.A. category…the currently unattached. That would be me…little ADG. The good news is that I’m off the gift buying hook and thus immune from the associated angst. The less than good news is that I’m currently unattached. Hold me.
So there’s no secret regarding the identity of my Valentine’s date. One Miss LFG … the straight A student and currently budding, much to my anguish and delight, lovely and articulate young lady. Articulate, you ask? Yes. We seem to have gone in no time, from twee little misspellings as evidenced above, to thoughtful emails letting me know that “I felt a bit crowded this weekend” and “Please don’t refer to yourself as Daddy or Mom as Mommy anymore.” Mom” and “Dad”, please.” These are verbatim quotes. The great news is that I’m blessed to have a connection with my young’un that allows for this comfortable level of communication between us. She’s eleven.
Oh, right. This is a post about my Valentine’s Date Night attire. Suffice it to say that the fuzziness was limited per…surprise…LFG. I pulled an old chalk stripe flannel suit from the ADG archives and amped-up ever so slightly, the fuzzy dice quotient with a Flusser horizontal striped shirt.
NO tie—LFG would have died had I showed up cinched at the neck. She unfortunately, indexes my level of sartorial deportment against all the other dads who show up for various school functions. I won’t belabor the point. If you read my blog, you of all people know the current sartorial state of daddies attending school functions.
Shoes? My Edward Green stalwart, go-to, never inappropriate chocolate suede monk straps are amidst refurbishment. And my Cleverley side gusseted classics are being remade.
So my fall back was an easy breezy pair of Belgians…with anything but showy socks. Brown shoes with a steel blue suit? You know my position on black shoes. I no likey them. Ok, ok, I did get busted over at tumblr for preening a pair of black Gucci bit loafers. That’s the exception. And LFG was neutral regarding my Valentine’s outfit. Mission accomplished.
Clyde’s Chevy Chase. Five-thirty reservations…the proverbial blue hair Shady Acres Village dinner time. LFG started with a cup of Clyde’s great chili. I opted for fried oysters. LFG tried a half of one. I figure that I’ll be able to talk her into trying another half of one…in about seventeen years. And yes, there was a Stoli Martini to the right of my fried oyster starter…but with a twist instead of olives. I concluded months ago that I was leaving too many olives uneaten, even though I love them. And that’s just wrong. Chicken tenders and a Cowboy steak rounded out our valve-closing culinary endeavor.
Oh, and the crossed utensils in the middle of the table? Tic-Tac-Toe. LFG used blue packets of Equal sweetener. I was told to use the yellow piccolo envelopes of Splenda. Thank God, she's still eleven.
Clyde’s remains a solid venue. It’s slipped a bit from the days of the singular Clyde’s on M Street but so has everything since then. But THE most brilliant stroke was the Bento Box of desserts. LFG and I both agreed that it was the highlight of our caloric line up. Double espresso for me. Sprite for LFG. It was a school night. Shut up.
Let me close this by sharing with you my Valentine’s gift from LFG. It’s a lovely letter. The envelope manifesting a little swatch of duct tape. I’ve defined this collateral adornment as simply LFG’s talisman of uniqueness and artistic freedom. And she made for me another friendship bracelet…that will later this morning, adorn my already junky left wrist.
Onward. In a Blessed Predicament. With LFG R.P.A. wrist junk.