2/14/2011 - my inability to write love poems. . .

Sam and I are not doing anything for Valentine's Day.  I didn't even remember what day it was until I walked out of the gym and saw a courier delivering a big bouquet of flowers to the office building next door with a heart-shaped balloon attached.  I quickly texted Sam an obligatory "Happy Valentine's Day!" message, but I already felt like a louse.  What happened to the romantic guy I used to be?

And the more I mourned over the loss of the sweet guy I once was, the more I doubted he ever existed at all.  It was, in fact, never me in the first place.  Of my two significant relationships before Sam: 1) I never needed to be romantic with Scott because he despised romance, thought it disingenuous however heartfelt the gesture may have been; and 2) between me and Eddie, Eddie was the one who wrote me love notes, used the word 'love' more often, planned for Valentine's Days.

Eddie, in the early days of our relationship, even suggested I write him a love poem one night when I complained about writer's block.  Little did he know that love poetry was one of the most difficult kinds for me to write unless I wanted to sound like a 12-year-old girl (I didn't).  So I slaved over it for a few days, afraid that I would fail, or worse, churn something out that sounds like something Taylor Swift wrote and then set to music.  What good was dating a poet if he can't write swoon-worthy love poems? 

Eventually, I cheated and gave him a poem about my inability to write love poems, which I think (hope) he liked well enough and met the criteria.  Unfortunately for me, though, that cop-out seems to have become a metaphor for my grasp of romance. 

If I were to rewind my life to last week, when I still had time to plan for Valentine's Day, I don't know if I would do anything differently (meaning do anything at all).  I don't think Sam would either.  I often use the excuse that Valentine's Day is nothing more than a fabricated holiday designed to drive sales for Hallmark and Hershey's, but I think this year, I am facing the fact that I wouldn't know what to do with a card and box of chocolates even if I had taken the time to buy them. 

Which begs the question: am I a bad boyfriend?  How did I become so handicapped in romance?  Where did it all go wrong?

So there I was this morning, sitting in my cubicle and simmering in an existential crisis, when I came across the following post from a friend on Facebook:

You learn what you do. If you worry a lot, then day after day you are learning how to worry even better. . . Every moment you are happy, you are learning how to be even happier. . .

I may not be romantic, may not know how to show my love to the ones who have it, but I'm happy.  It's odd to say it, seems simplistic and boastful, but how else do I describe this feeling?  I am, on more moments than not, happy. 

I know that this happiness is borne out of love. 

And I do love.  While I tease Sam for not being able to say it, I am no better at it.  But I feel it, and I know he does too.  I think it every night when he throws his arm over me as we fall asleep.  When I'm sitting on the couch, and I hear his feet shuffling rhythmically on the hardwood floor, I know that he is doing that little dance he does absent-mindedly where he pivots his feet out with each walking step.  And I love it.  This morning, when I stood upstairs brushing my teeth, overlooking the living room and seeing him eat his cereal while watching the rain outside, I could not, at the time, put into words how I felt, but I think it was happiness.  And love.  So full of it, yet I just couldn't tell him so.  At the time or now.

But I do love.  And maybe, if my friend's post is correct, I'll get better at it and in the meantime, have it better me.