A Valentine's Day Romance

            Valentine’s Day can be a tricky proposition for us guys much in the same way that playing with balloons can be a tricky proposition for porcupines.

            For some reason, it seems that society (mostly the female portion) expects us guys to be virtuosos of all things romantic. This despite overwhelming evidence that most of us have no such skills and that many, such as me, actually have a negative romance IQ.

            My unromantic instincts revealed themselves in seventh grade, when my buddies and I noticed a startling development regarding the girls: many of them were starting to develop!

            Up until then, we boys had regarded our female classmate as a species that warranted only mild curiosity. Girls generally spent recess gathered in small herds, talking, whispering, sharing secret girl stuff. They had zero interest in joining our marathon game of No Rules Kickball, which lasted all the way through elementary school.   

            But then the girls began to acquire curves. We boys found this new look fascinating, although we couldn’t say exactly why. Girls – the creatures whom we had ignored due to their total lack of kickball skills – were suddenly infinitely intriguing.

            Our social hierarchy was thrown into a cement mixer. We boys now had to consider the feelings of an entirely new segment of the population!

            It wasn’t long before a particular boy expressed a romantic interest in a particular girl. The girls got wind of this and dispatched an emissary to make inquiries. Was it true that the boy liked the girl? Did he simply “like” her or did he, in fact, “really like” her? Notes were sent back and forth. The girl couriers had the demeanor of a person who had been entrusted with super-secret high-level diplomatic correspondences. The fate of future generations was in their hands!  

            Soon it became known that the boy and the girl were “going steady,” which meant that the boy was allowed to walk beside the girl between classes. When he was also allowed to carry her books, it was declared that things were “getting serious.”

            The rest of us boys instantly began to want to “go steady.” We signaled our deep  feelings toward the girls by hanging around near them and punching each other in the shoulder.

            As Valentine’s Day drew near, the pressure to be “going steady” skyrocketed. Anyone who was single on the most romantic day of the year would be looked down upon as a lonesome loser.    

            One girl seemed especially going steady-worthy to me. She was tall and gangly and had mousy hair. In addition to these obvious charms, she possessed a quality that I found supremely attractive, namely, she was unattached.

            I cranked up my courage and sent a message through the proper channels. A female envoy carrying a piece of paper soon approached me. A note! My heart jackhammered in my chest.   

            But it wasn’t a note. The girl plenipotentiary instead popped the paper into a beak-shaped fortuneteller.

            “Ellen says that she isn’t sure what to do so she’s going to let the fortuneteller decide,” said the courier as she chewed her bubblegum meaningfully.

            I dutifully chose a color on the outside and a number on the inside.

            “It says ‘Not likely,’” said the go-between, her smile betraying secret knowledge.

            I was crushed. Not just because Ellen was my only shot at having an official Valentine’s “steady,” but also because I knew that this debacle would be discussed and dissected and whispered about for months.

            I later happened to see a familiar-looking wad of paper in the trash. It was the fortuneteller that had dashed my romantic hopes. Reading its contents, I learned that its answers ranged from “Fat chance!” to “I would rather kiss a moose!” and realized that I had actually been let down easy. I was grateful that Fate had been so kind.

            It’s been said that we learn more from our failures than our successes, but this doesn’t seem true for me. Many years later, when I first set eyes on the young woman who would become my wife, I telegraphed my interest in her by punching my buddy Steve in the shoulder. Good thing he was there or else I would have been forced to punch my own shoulder!

            My wife and I have now spent more than 30 Valentine’s Days together. Flowers and candy are fine for this occasion, but I prefer something handmade. Not only is this more romantic, it’s usually less expensive.

            This year, I think a paper fortuneteller might do the trick. And I have a pretty good idea of what type of messages it won’t contain.                                     

                     

An Americal Mall Experience

            My wife and I recently made a quick business trip to the Twin Cities.

            She totally hates to drive in any metropolis that’s larger than a dozen structures. This is because we live out in the boonies. For us, a traffic jam involves politely waving the other driver on at a stop sign. Even though it wasn’t rush hour when we arrived in the Cities, we felt overwhelmed. Every driver who was on the route that we were taking seemed to have highly questionable driving skills!

            We were billeted at a large hotel and given a room located on the top floor. Looking out our window lent us a commanding view of the hotel’s parking lot and the freeway and beyond that, a picket fence of skyscrapers. This is somewhat different than our house, where the tallest structure that greets the eye are the distant spires of the co-op elevator’s grain silos.

            At breakfast I was able to observe the American Businessman in his natural habitat. I noted that their preferred plumage seems to be suits and ties and lanyard name badges and briefcases.     

            I felt lost amidst this assemblage of Masters of the Universe, the impeccably coiffed and cologned men who grease the wheels of our nation’s economy. But then again, they would probably feel lost if they were to be plunked down amidst our corn fields.

            As I munched my French toast, I surreptitiously studied a pair of businessmen who were breakfasting nearby.

            They chatted as they noshed, although both of these processes were halted at random moments when they had to turn their attentions to their smart phones. One of the guys also had an open laptop on the table in front of him, distracting him even further. It was strange to witness all that non-communication happening in the midst of all that supposed communication.

            After our meetings were over, my wife and I opted to visit our oldest son, who lives and works in the Twin Cities. We chose to meet at an easy-to-find venue called the Mall Of America.

            Near as I can tell, it was named the Mall Of America because it covers a major percentage of America. Like a gigantic terrarium, the mall contains a self-sustaining ecosystem. At the center of this ecosystem is an amusement park, the main purpose of which seems to be extracting screams from its youthful riders. Perhaps this is necessary for maintaining the mall’s biosphere.              

            A person could live their entire life in the Mall Of America. I saw a bridal shop and a wedding chapel, several maternity stores and an infinite number of clothing, bedding, food and consumer electronic outlets. The only thing missing was a funeral home and a cemetery, but there were large portions of the mall that we left unexplored. 

            My wife and I strolled the endless hallways. Even though the mall is essentially a giant square, we couldn’t shake the feeling that we had become lost. The Mall Of America is so vast, by the time we passed a store we had seen before we had all but forgotten that we’d already been there. I was beginning to worry that the authorities might someday discover our skeletonized remains in a forgotten hallway labeled “Free Samples” when we finally saw something familiar.

            “Didn’t we pass that sign for the Sea Life Aquarium a while ago?” asked my wife.

            We had. There was still some time before we were to meet our son, so we opted to visit the aquarium.

            It was a bit startling to see a slew of tropical sea life in the middle of a mall in the middle of Minnesota in the middle of the winter. But we had by then become so inured to the artificial wonders of the colossal mall that nothing seemed improbable.

            We ambled down a long glass tunnel as sharks and rays glided gracefully overhead. I enjoyed it immensely. My wife, however, was too busy worrying about whether or not the glass tunnel would choose to implode just as we walked through.

            I suddenly espied a familiar face.

            “Whoa!” I exclaimed, “It’s Crush from ‘Finding Nemo’!” I tapped on the glass and said loudly, “Duude! What’s up?”

            Crush couldn’t be bothered to reply. Either that or it was another sea turtle.

            “I can’t take you anywhere!” said my wife. “Look! Now there are nose prints on the glass!”

            Thank goodness our son arrived just then to Sherpa us from the wilds of the Mall Of America! We motored back home just fine and are glad to again be driving on roads that aren’t being hogged by eejits.