While not tripping across the rubble of my scattered belongings, I’m thinking about the upcoming visit of M for Linuxworld in Boston.
He’s arriving on Valentine’s Day, which is kind of sweet if you care about such things.
(As I side note, I have historically cared about such things, but I think it’s directly proportional to how much other terrible shit is going on in the relationship. When I have dated a wonderful, decent guy with some sensitivity about others on the planet (such as M.), I haven’t sweated VD and wished for some Hallmark bullshit. However, when I have dated a total fucking asshole, as I have unfortunately done, who has treated me like a doormat, which I have unfortunately done, VD has been some weird desert oasis. Like, “Ohhhhh he’s a friggin’ asshole who has crushed me seven ways to Sunday, but aren’t these roses pretty?”)
On the whole, I’d prefer skipping the bullshit holidays in favor of a full year of not dating a weasel. These last couple of years have reinforced that preference, so I’m not really caring about Valentine’s. (Although, I do so enjoy nagging M. about stupid stuff.)
Unrelated to the synthetic holiday and because he possesses an ability to plan into the future, which I consider an asset, M. thought it might be nice to celebrate our birthdays a few weeks early. Afterall, he’ll be at my place for the last time, and I’ll be in the painful throes of actually moving when the real birth dates arrive.
Cynically, I’ve suggested it also provides him a great dodge to the VD, Hallmark, you don’t bring me flowers, someone left my cake out in the rain, Feb. 14 fun.
Because every now and again, I like to be a tad frivolous in gift-giving, especially for someone who doesn’t ask for much, I’ve been racking my brain (and picking other brains) for inspiration. I narrowed it down to a flight lesson at the flight school he passes on his way to work and something else.
I went with the something else. But, now, I’m a nervous wreck waiting to see whether it’s an acceptable version of what it is and whether it’s to the gentleman’s liking. It’s classic, it’s American, it’s from a store I never, ever, ever go into, but will he like it?
Argh. The few days of uncertainty are going to kill me. (Even though, I made sure that it is completely returnable. Whew.)