A Runner's Valentine

This year, I knew I would be at a conference for my class that was scheduled to meet from 4-6 p.m. on Valentine’s Day.  I asked a colleague to cover for me, and she said, “Sorry, I can’t.  My husband is a romantic and I know he will have made wonderful plans for us!” 

You would think that she was a newlywed in the first throes of early love.  But no, she has been married for many years and has a grandchild in high school.  I began thinking about the role of romance in my own marriage.  We will be married 18 years in June, and the romance, as traditionally constructed, has been gone for awhile now.  My birthday is within a few days of Valentine’s Day, and Nels has been known to ask, “Do I have to buy a Valentine’s Day card too?”  If he has to ask, there can be only one answer.  On a Valentine’s Day a long time ago, I shamed him into buying me flowers, and it was just all wrong.  Instead of being a gesture of love, it was a gesture of guilt based on my culturally constructed feeling that flowers=romance=love.

Ironically, I have received the most beautiful flower arrangements from him for my last few birthdays, even when he is out of town, as he was last week.  This is from a guy whose normal idea of a gift for me (and anyone else) is from the clearance rack at Marshall’s.  The bargain is part of the narrative of gift-buying for him. 

Over the years, my ideas about romance have changed.  I love the pure beauty and riotous scents that my birthday flowers bring to our late-winter, scratchy-heat home.  Not only are they an expression of Nels’ recognition and appreciation of what I enjoy, but they contain the early promise of spring.

 However, the real romance occurs not in a fancy restaurant or B&B, but on the East Bay Bike Path.  When we are running, we can talk about all the easy and hard things we are experiencing as individuals and together.  For some reason, hard truths are more palatable while running; maybe because we are not looking at each other, or because we are both engaged in physical effort, or because we are engaged in a shared experience even as we are talking about something potentially polarizing. 

In addition to these potentially difficult conversations, though, there is also the encouragement Nels provides for me as a runner.  He can compute numbers in his head (I love to test his actuarial skills by throwing out random equations about money or running times) and his newest calculation indicates that it is possible for me to run a BQ (Boston Qualifier) in my late 40’s.  “All you have to do is get down to 3:45!”  he enthuses.  I ran my last marathon in 4:26.  I have my doubts, but he does not.

For me, the ultimate in romance is someone who believes in me more than I do myself.  So, no, honey, you never, ever, have to buy me another Valentine’s Day card.  I love you.