Are You Ready to Get Some?

Men!  Now that I have your attention…  Valentine’s Day is rapidly approaching.  You know what that means:  you and your romantic gestures are about to go under the microscope. 

Many women will state that they don’t really care about Valentine’s Day, that it’s a Hallmark holiday that doesn’t really matter.  For a few of us, that may hold true.  (And yes, “us.” I’m a pathetic, sappy, uber-romantic who actually doesn’t care all that much about Valentine’s Day.  But this post isn’t about me.)  For many women, however, Valentine’s Day is a huge opportunity for each of you men to be a hero.

BUT – and there’s always a but, isn’t there (and some buts are bigger than others) – if you are in a longer-term relationship, don’t expect the magic of Valentine’s Day to be a cure-all for your relationship woes.  If you want the attention and adoration of your female partner, both on Valentine’s Day and throughout the year, here are a few quick suggestions:

• Be Considerate, Make Her Feel Adored:  Do you remember early in your relationship when you would do little things to make her think fondly of you?  Well… do you still do things like that?  Do what my friend L's husband does for her... Send her little notes that let her know you’re thinking of her. Help her find time to do something for herself. Give her a foot rub or neck rub without her having to ask. Bring her flowers or her favorite candy or a knick-knack for her desk for no reason. Don't expect anything in return. Just do it.
• Don’t “Fix” Her:  Look, none of us is perfect.  Not one of us.  Not even models, if they are to be believed when they go on and on about how they're all airbrushed.  I, for one, tend to believe - as do about 98.3% of all straight adult males - that the models are lying and that they're actually just that perfect and that they came up with this airbrushed nonsense in order not to be hated as much by "normal" women. But I digress.  The point I was making is to please realize that if you recognize a flaw of your partner's, it’s likely she not only recognizes it as well but is 182 times more aware of it than you are.  You know what, interestingly, will improve her flaws far better than pointing them out, picking at them or passive-aggressively trying to get her to fix them?  Try this... pay attention to and compliment those things about her that you find attractive.  Repeat.  Repeat again.  It’s almost magical how quickly the flaws lose their prominence among all that adoration.
• Tell Her You Appreciate Her:  We all know how much it stings when we try to tackle something – around the house, at work, etc. – and the first words someone throws our way are criticisms about how we could have done it, whatever it is, better. Take that kind of insight and use it to remember not to nitpick. Instead, identify what she does well, or even simply what she tries to do, and let her know you appreciate her efforts. When my family has dinner around the dining table, my husband always thanks me for cooking, whether the meal is stellar or so-so, and his gesture never fails to bring a smile to my face and warm my heart.
• Let Her Know You Respect Her:  Women are a bit of a quandary.  If you compliment a woman’s looks too much but don’t let her know you respect her, she’ll worry you only want her for her physical attractiveness.  Tell her too much that you respect her without letting her know you think she is attractive, and she will worry you don’t think she’s attractive.  Yes, we’re annoying like that.  Be that as it may, be sure you actually converse with your girlfriend or wife, and not just about household stuff or family stuff or kid stuff.  Ask for her opinion or insight, and then listen.  Listen for real.
• Tell Her She Is Beautiful:  This is one that I think is often misconstrued by men, so listen carefully… when I say tell her she is beautiful, what I mean is this:  Tell her she is beautiful.  “Pretty” is all about looks, and that’s fine but not the same.  Same goes for “cute,” unless you’re kidding about something she said or did.  “Hot” is too sex-laden and gets old quickly. There is something special and precious about being called beautiful.  Maybe it’s that beautiful is so multi-faceted, and as such it allows a woman a little room for interpretation. Beautiful can refer to facial loveliness, and it can refer to a woman’s physique. Beautiful can mean something beyond pretty in the physical sense, even an aura.  And beautiful, of course, can refer to a woman’s heart.  Beautiful is a special word that is often reserved for someone who is beyond the norm.  So tell her she is beautiful. And mean it.

Finally - and this one is important - tell her that you love her.  I don’t mean the cursory “I love you” we all say to a long-term partner at the end of a phone call or as we say good-night.  I don’t mean the light-hearted but fully felt “I love you” that some of us say to our good friends. (I tell my best friend several times a week that I love her. Because I do.)  I mean take a non-routine moment to look in her eyes and tell her, while she is listening, that you love her. 

And, just like when you tell her she is beautiful… mean it.

Voices

Happy 2013! 

Today's post - as often is the case on this blog - is completely random and unrelated to anything in the past.  On this fine January 2, I thought I'd share with you a short story.

If you don't like short stories, no worries.  Just close the window and come back another time.  

Otherwise... enjoy....

VOICES

January 2, 2013

"Darling, you know I would hold your hand if I could."

His words hover near her ear as she walks in quick, small steps up the narrow city sidewalk. She doesn't look over or up or even at the scene ahead. Her eyes fixate on the pavement a few yards in front of her as if she is terrified of having to acknowledge anything other than crooked concrete.

"I know it's not the same," she hears him say, "but imagine my hand closed snugly around yours, our fingers entwined. Can you try that for me? With me?"

Against her will, she finds herself trying to imagine his hand holding hers.  She can almost feel phantom fingers, warm and strong, tenderly wrapped in an embrace around her own.  Her heart flutters in her small chest, and she feels her throat tighten the slightest bit.

Without a word or any sign that she hears him, she continues down the sidewalk, her small shoes snick-snick-snicking as motorcars rumble past and the noise and grey smell and winter wind of the city weigh and press around her.

His voice reaches her again. "My sweet, I wish you would speak to me. I miss your voice. Your wit. Your beautiful laugh which so brightens my heart."

Her heel catches in a sidewalk crevice, tripping her.  Her small, gloved hands flail slightly as she struggles to regain her footing.  She manages to right herself and avoid the humiliation of collapsing in a heap on the cold pavement. She stands stock still for a moment, eyes closed, jaw clenched, trying to regain her composure, her breath and her self control.

When the world beneath her feels stable once again, she opens her eyes and watches the traffic and the bustle around her, deciding if she will continue the last few blocks to her destination. She desperately wants to go, wants to be with him even if the situation has to be so tragically, heartbreakingly imperfect, but she doesn't know if she can survive this.

She adjusts her hat, which has fallen askew, checks her gloves, her skirts, her heel, even her handbag, as she struggles to make her decision. Finally, she gives her head a curt shake to clear it, straightens her shoulders and, finally looking forward, continues on her way.

She turns a corner onto a quiet side street, the sounds and movement of the city becoming muffled and cottony. She is approaching her destination. Her heart pounds and swells with worry and pain.

"You know how I feel about you, or at least by now you should," she hears him say, his voice husky in her ear.

Those words hang in the winter air, soothing and stinging at the same time.  Tears spring up at the corners of her eyes. She tries to blink them away, but one manages to escape and drift, rebellious and heavy, alongside her nose and down to her upper lip where she wipes it away with a gloved finger.

She turns right at the end of the city block and approaches a low gate, and there she stops. She reaches over and grips the top of the gate with one hand, steadying herself as a wave of vertigo washes over her.

"I want so much for you to be happy, my love. My heart aches to see you so sad. You are so very dear to me."

She stands still in the silence that follows, waiting for... she doesn't know what.  Her eyes focus firmly on the ground by her feet.  Rather than a bland sidewalk, she now stands upon a red brick walkway.  Close, to her left, she can see the lower leg of his expensive trousers and the toes of his glossy black shoes. 

His feet shift undecidedly for a moment, then move past her through the gate. She allows her gaze to draw upward and follow the path of his heavy, black wool overcoat. His shoulders droop forward slightly, and she senses sadness in the set of his jaw.

He pauses at the point on the brick path where his next step will carry him out of her view behind a formidable red brick building. His dark eyes look directly into hers, holding her gaze, her attention, her soul.

"You know that I..."

He seems to struggle for a moment to find the right words, then stops and falls permanently silent.  He sets his shoulders back, high and confident, though his stance does little to dissipate the concern in his eyes. He holds her gaze for a moment longer, then turns and continues down the path and out of sight.

For long minutes, she stares at the spot where he last existed for her. When she feels she can walk steadily once again, she passes through the gate and follows the path that he broached. She wants to run after him, to throw decorum and pride to the wind, but her long skirts, snug corset and slim-heeled shoes keep her stride and her dignity in check.

She passes into the dimness between two buildings and, several feet along the path, arrives at elegant, wide double doors containing broad panes of clear glass that allowed an unobstructed view of a large ballroom. Within, gleaming wood-paned walls and light from dark yellow sconces display the promise of warmth and ease. A happy gathering is in progress, and well heeled partygoers talk and laugh with one another.

A uniformed doorman opens one of the double doors and directs her inside to an attended greeting table. She opens her handbag and finds the small, square card on which her invitation is inscribed. As she frees the card from the bag, she glances up and sees him several feet away standing among a small throng. His back is to her, but his features are etched in her memory. A tall, slender woman stands to his left, her hand resting in the crook of his arm with the assurance of years of familiarity. She is attractive with a ready, assured smile and the relaxed but upright stance of a woman certain of herself and of her place.

Slowly, her eyes never leaving the two of them, she places the invitation back inside her handbag. She smiles apologetically at the woman minding the greeting table. Then, without a final look at the couple, she turns and walks through the double doors into the darkening afternoon.

************

Not far away, in another section of the city...

"Darling, you know I would hold your hand if I could."

His words hover near her ear as she walks in quick, small steps up the narrow city sidewalk. She doesn't look over or up or even at the scene ahead. Her eyes fixate on the pavement a few yards in front of her as if she is terrified of having to acknowledge anything other than crooked concrete.

"I know it's not the same," she hears him say, "but imagine my hand closed snugly around yours, our fingers entwined. Can you try that for me? With me?"

Against her will, she finds herself trying to imagine his hand holding hers.  She can almost feel phantom fingers, warm and strong, tenderly wrapped in an embrace around her own.  Her heart flutters in her small chest, and she feels her throat tighten the slightest bit.

Without a word or any sign that she hears him, she continues down the sidewalk, her small shoes snick-snick-snicking as motorcars rumble past and the noise and grey smell and winter wind of the city weigh and press around her.

His voice reaches her again. "My sweet, I wish you would speak to me. I miss your voice. Your wit. Your beautiful laugh which so brightens my heart."

Her heel catches in a sidewalk crevice, tripping her.  Her small, gloved hands flail slightly as she struggles to regain her footing.  She manages to right herself and avoid the humiliation of collapsing in a heap on the cold pavement. She stands stock still for a moment, eyes closed, jaw clenched, trying to regain her composure, her breath and her self control.

When the world beneath her feels stable once again, she opens her eyes and watches the traffic and the bustle around her, deciding if she will continue the last few blocks to her destination. She desperately wants to go, wants to be with him even if the situation has to be so tragically, heartbreakingly imperfect, but she doesn't know if she can survive this.

She adjusts her hat, which has fallen askew, checks her gloves, her skirts, her heel, even her handbag, as she struggles to make her decision. Finally, she gives her head a curt shake to clear it, straightens her shoulders and, finally looking forward, continues on her way.

She turns a corner onto a quiet side street, the sounds and movement of the city becoming muffled and cottony. She is approaching her destination. Her heart pounds and swells with worry and pain.

"You know how I feel about you, or at least by now you should," she hears him say, his voice husky in her ear.

Those words hang in the winter air, soothing and stinging at the same time.  Tears spring up at the corners of her eyes. She tries to blink them away, but one manages to escape and drift, rebellious and heavy, alongside her nose and down to her upper lip where she wipes it away with a gloved finger.

She turns right at the end of the city block and approaches a low gate, and there she stops. She reaches over and grips the top of the gate with one hand, steadying herself as a wave of vertigo washes over her.

"I want so much for you to be happy, my love. My heart aches to see you so sad. You are so very dear to me."

She stands still in the silence that follows, waiting for... she doesn't know what.  Her eyes focus firmly on the ground by her feet.  Rather than a bland sidewalk, she now stands upon a gravel walkway.  With tremendous force of will, she slides her gaze along the gravel path until her eyes take in the landscape in front of her.

Several feet down the path, green lawns expand outward in softly rolling hillocks.  Placed with care among the grass, flowers and occasional tree, small headstones stand patient and silent next to one another in tidy rows.

For long minutes, she stares transfixed at one point on the lawns, a rise away. When she feels she can trust her legs once again, she takes a steadying breath and walks slowly through the gate.

She follows the path as it weaves through the landscape and arrives at the small, white rectangle that bears his name. She stares at it, willing his name to disappear in favor of another, to fall away, to simply not exist.  

She finds herself envisioning him as he looked the day they parted, his smile both reassuring in its warmth and terrifying for the fear he was trying so desperately yet unsuccessfully to hide.

Thoughts and doubts swim through her mind. She should have brought flowers. She should have worn the green dress he loved. Was it dark underground? He would have loved the view along these lawns almost hidden within the city. He never gave much thought to flowers anyway, except to give them to her. What does it matter what she wore? He will never see her again.

He will never see her again. Ever.

And although she heard his voice speaking to her as she made her way here, she has not heard him since passing through the gate. She hears only the whisper of the chill breeze and the distant whir of the city and her own shallow breath. And silence.

Her legs crumple beneath her in front of the stone bearing his name.

And there she kneels. And weeps.