Valentine’s Day has always been… complicated.
Not emotionally complicated, logistically complicated. Like trying to parallel-park a unicycle.

First, a disclosure: Valentine’s Day is my birthday. Which sounds romantic until you live it. Then you realize it’s more like being born in the middle of a fireworks display where none of the fireworks are technically for you.

People born on Christmas know this pain. You get one present. One cake. One day. A gift wrapped in paper that says To You (and Also Jesus). On Valentine’s Day, it’s hearts and roses and chocolate for love, and then, as an afterthought, a quick, “Oh right, happy birthday too.”

I’ve blown out candles shaped like hearts. I’ve shared birthday dinners with couples gazing at each other like they’re auditioning for a jewelry commercial. I’ve smiled bravely while someone says, “This is for your birthday and Valentine’s,” handing me a single box that feels suspiciously light.

So yes. Not always my favorite day.

Which is why, this time of year, I tend to observe Valentine’s Day the way one observes a parade from behind a window: interested, slightly skeptical, and safely indoors. This year, however, there’s a wrinkle. The Huz wants to do something special for me. This is notable because it is, quite possibly, the first time in over thirty years of marriage that the phrase “something special” has been actively brainstormed in advance. His ideas include a surprise party. “After all,” he says, “it *is* your seventieth birthday.”
My ideas include a quiet dinner out at an expensive restaurant.

His next proposal: invite people over and cook for them.
My counteroffer: a quiet dinner out at *any* restaurant.

I’ve spent the last few weeks wondering whose birthday this actually is anyway, and quietly hoping there is no surprise party. A slumber party, however (pillows, pajamas, early bedtime) suddenly feels extremely appealing. Which is maybe just another way of saying I know myself better now. Meanwhile, a friend of mine, let’s call him a Romantic of a Certain Age, recently told me a story that landed right in my lap like a dropped conversation heart.

Last year, he fell in love. Or at least fell a little. The kind of falling where your heart doesn’t trip so much as cannonball. Wowza. Ka‑powza. That kind.

She was luminous. Smart. Cultured. The kind of woman who could discuss art, travel, and why Chinese food is best eaten straight from the carton. Or Indian food, fingers involved, unapologetically. He adored her. And then, because this is how these stories go, he adored her too fast. He leaned in when she needed space. Got twitchy in the pauses. Let enthusiasm outrun timing. 

Predictably, she vanished, like a magician’s assistant who decided mid‑trick she had better places to be.

To his credit, he owns his part in it. Also to his credit, he admits that romance remains a baffling puzzle, even after decades of practice. Especially after decades of practice.

What struck me wasn’t the heartbreak itself (though that lingered, quietly, for months) but what he said next. Nearing Valentine’s Day, he realized he might have dodged a Cupid’s arrow. Because imagine if it had worked. If they’d become lovers, laugh‑sharers, soul‑bearers, and then (months later) he scared her away? That kind of ending would have leveled him. Full emotional crater. Super‑duper doomed.

We’re told we grow tougher as we age. But love seems to reverse that process. You don’t get thicker skin; you get softer centers. Stronger spines, maybe. But hearts? Hearts turn to pudding.

Delicious, ridiculous (probably chocolate) pudding.

Still, he said, he wouldn’t trade it. The early smiles. The delight of making someone laugh. The walks. The feeling, after a first lunch of hugging goodbye and suddenly realizing the world has adjusted its exposure. Colors brighter. Life sharper. Everything better.

That feeling is the drug. The risk. The reason we keep stepping back into the ring, pudding hearts and all.

So yes, Valentine’s Day is complicated for me. It’s my birthday, and not always a great one. One present. One celebration. A lifetime of sharing my cake with Cupid.

But it’s not all bad. I have, in fact, made a lifelong arrangement with every store across the country. Florists. Pharmacies. Grocery chains. Even gas stations.

Every February, they place hearts in their windows. Red ones. Pink ones. Shiny, excessive ones.

A nationwide reminder that it’s my birthday.

And also—apparently—that love is still worth celebrating.