This Sunday, we’re told by the commercial world, is a day when we’re supposed to lavish our significant other — or someone we’re trying to convince to be that person — with gold, frankincense and mir.
No. Wait. Sorry. That’s the other annual rip-off, loosely connected to the birth of Jesus, but now reduced to a spending frenzy for gifts we don’t need. Really, we don’t.
But with every passing year, Christmas and Valentine’s Day grow closer together, both in form and in the shrinkage of time between the last roll of discounted Christmas wrapping paper leaving the store shelf and the heart-shaped candies appearing in its place.
According to figures released this week, Canadians, on average, will spend $170 on their spouse, partner or the aforementioned unsuspecting love interest — perhaps your colleague or someone you vaguely know on Facebook, but have always “admired.”
Apparently, we’re supposed to wine and dine that person, buy them a card with a slushy message inside, chocolates, flowers and maybe a heart-shaped balloon from the dollar store, if you’re feeling especially generous. I even had the misfortune to see a recent TV commercial suggesting that a car would be a great little pressie on Feb. 14.
Really? You need to buy all these things for said person on a certain day of the year just to express your feelings for them?
If I don’t splurge on the cards with “undying love,” “you’re my soul-mate” sentiments inside, on the box of candy with the pink ribbons or on the dozen red roses, am I an unfeeling, uncaring, cold-hearted husband?
I certainly don’t need Milestones restaurant to tell me that Wednesday is date night, and I don’t need Hallmark, Wal-Mart, Save-On, Purdy’s et al telling me when to let my wife know she’s appreciated and, dare I say, loved.
If she reads this, I’m sure she will be asking me for the dates on which such sentiments were actually expressed, but that’s another column altogether.
The fact is, every day is Valentine’s Day in my home. Without being asked or hinted to, breakfast in bed is served most weekends and holidays, special meals are concocted, if I see clothes in stores that my wife might like, I’ll buy them or take a picture to see if she wants me to pick it up for her next time.
I’m not, for a second, nominating myself for husband of the year, but the list does go on and on and on, ahem.
Suffice to say, there are 364 — or 365 on a leap year such as this one — other days of the year that we can, of our own accord, do at least one of things expected of us on Feb. 14.
Surely they must count for something.
Alan Campbell is a reporter with the Richmond News. He can be reached at [email protected]
