In
third grade I handed out Valentine's Day cards just like the other 30
or so members of my class, making sure everybody got one -- even the
dork nerd
dweebjobs.
I praised myself for thinking of the little people. Then I returned to
my desk, counted my bounty -- a handful -- and came to a sudden and
very sad conclusion.
When I was in middle school, I received a
Valentine's Day gold chain bracelet from the first girl I french
kissed. I must not have been a good kisser, because a few days later my
wrist turned green. We broke up not long afterward.
On our first
Valentine's Day together, I drove Dana to a strip mall, pulling into a
parking space just in front of a dingy, plastic-chair Chinese
restaurant that we had come to know as our own. "I love your sense of
humor," Dana said. "So really -- where are we going? Some place
romantic?" I was 20 and didn't
know any place romantic. So I
called a restaurant in Napa she had heard about, praying and stepping
on the gas at the same time. We waited an hour and a half to share a
seat at the bar.
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