Now that's romantic.

A few weeks ago I was chatting with some of my Monday night coworkers about romance. The only guy on the shift is a nice enough mid twenty something male who has plenty going for him but who couldn't figure out why girls seemed to shy away from him. In his mind, he was the perfect catch. That was perhaps the issue, but that's a discussion for another blog. "I'm the last of dying breed" he said to me after describing his last romantic encounter with an ex that included a bubble bath, red roses, wine, candles... you know, the whole enchilada.

I detected a distinct hint of pride when he said this, though I think he felt it churlish to really brag. He was after all surrounded by two married stay at home moms and a high school junior who was about to break it off with her long time "bf". We were clearly not the ones he wanted to impress with this statement.

For some reason this 3 minute long conversation has kind of stuck on rewind in my brain for the last few weeks. Perhaps it is because with Valentines Day rapidly approaching, pop culture has been pretty saturated with mush. At any rate, it instigated a good deal of reflection on my part. Mostly when I was in the shower, because the water drowns out the sound of my children screaming at me.

When was the last time my husband drew me a bath or bought me roses or even lit a candle? See, the truth is, I don't particularly care for baths in our tub- the paint is all chippy and though we have plans to renovate our bathroom after we get our tax refund, life is unpredictable. And I actually don't like roses. At all. Especially red ones. I do like candles, but I prefer ones that smell like apples or pumpkin or baking cookies and my spring fever is not really conducive to that... Mike likes evergreen scented ones. Same deal applies.

I racked my brain for the last truly romantic gesture my husband did for me, but the fact of the matter is, we just don't do stereotypical romance. For some reason, whether due to the fact that we're just more creative then that, or maybe just that we're poor, we've strayed from the social norm. So when girls look at me all sympathetic-like when I confess that my husband has never in our 10+ years of knowing each other, taken me to an uber fancy shmancy restaurant with food I can't pronounce and that probably has mushrooms in it, while playing Boccelli and presenting me with expensive jewelry...

It kind of irritates me. I get all defensive. I mean, we're just not like that. So he hasn't taken me to any swanky restaurant downtown ever. When we were in college, he planned a picnic on my dorm room floor. With no fungus, thanks very much. And while I'm cool with the classical vocal standards, my man is a bit more punk and country than that. In fact, while on vacation with his family a few years back, he sang Brad Paisley's Mud on the Tires at karaoke night, dedicating it to me. Sober. It still makes me smile all stupid when I think of it. He saved an entire summer working 13 hour days with the park district (not an easy feat, mind you) to buy my beautiful engagement ring and band. Maybe I don't get diamonds for "push presents" or random anniversaries, but once he went to a silent auction for his work and the ladies all convinced him to bid on a pearl necklace for me. The proud look on his face when he came home with such a classy gift was worth every penny.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a sucker for romance. I've read every work of Austen several times through. I watch reruns of The Office just to relive the Jim and Pam saga over and over. I wait in long lines with spastic tweens come opening night of each of the Twilight releases. I bought conversation hearts even though I don't really like the taste. But for all the stock that I put in romantic words and gestures, I don't remember a single word of Mike's speech when he proposed. Not one word. I do remember however, that he asked both of my dads and my mom for permission to propose in the first place. Because he knew it meant a lot to me.

And that's really it, isn't it? He knows what is important to me and he strives for that each and every day. He loves our children without abandon, even when they screech and scream and interrupt our Valentines dinner plans. He shovels the end of our driveway because even though I probably can get out, he knows I'm too nervous to try. He doesn't pout and complain when I fall asleep early. He compliments my cooking even though we both know its far below par most nights. He tells me I'm still "hot" even though I've had two babies in two years and my belly is stretched beyond appropriate bikini use. He still kisses me to distraction and he still makes me want to be a better wife for him.

So there. I have to disagree with my coworker friend. He's not the last of a dying breed; maybe just the last of a different one. One that I don't want to be a part of anyway.

Happy Valentines day, dear readers and friends and a very happy Valentines day to you, Mike. Infinity times three.