First grade
On Feb. 14, every student was instructed to bring a cardboard box to class, which we would decorate and use for our valentine mailboxes. Mine originated as a Buster Brown shoebox. Then I covered it with aluminum foil and glitter, construction paper hearts and ribbon, paper doilies and candy Red Hots. In a word: Gorgeous.
I had crushes on two boys. Andy Williams had red hair and freckles. He always introduced himself as “Andy Williams, like the singer.” I had no idea what that meant at the time, but I thought he was sweet anyway. We shared a love of swing sets, Slim Goodbody and the Smurfs.
Barry was the other one. I don’t remember much about him, except that he had a huge head. Massive. It was as round and full as a mylar balloon, crowned by soft, dark hair, parted in the middle and feathered over his ears. We didn’t have much in common. Even back then, I understood Barry was just a pretty face.
I loved both of them with innocence and fierceness, to a point where I found it impossible to choose between them. And when it came time to slip my Spiderman valentines into their cardboard boxes, I couldn’t possibly pick just one card. I had things I needed to say to these boys. Things that could only be communicated with “You’ve tangled me in your web, Valentine!” AND “Stick with me for Valentine’s Day!”
So I gave both of them valentines. And I gave them two valentines each, slipped into the same envelope, so it would look accidental.
Barry was the first to notice. “Hey, you gave me two valentines!”
“Oh, did I? That’s weird.”
“I got two valentines too!” said Andy. He beamed from ear to ear.
That afternoon, I had two dates for lunch in the cafeteria. And by the end of the day, both boys had made extra valentines for me. Construction paper hearts, crudely cut with rounded safety scissors, and pasted together like fat heart sandwiches.
I didn’t know what love was. But I was positive it had something to do with shiny, feathered hair and construction paper hearts and walking home with an overflowing shoebox.
***
College
I cannot stress how tiny my single dorm room was. It was thinner than the hallway of a Depression-era building and not much longer than a dining room table. In an effort to create more space, I hoisted my bed on stilts. That meant I spent drunk nights, most nights, on the floor, with the walls leaning over me in judgment. It was a particularly fragile year for me, and everything I had thought I knew about myself later turned out to be false.
I was sad and lonely. I didn’t have a broken heart, but I certainly had a weary one. I hadn’t yet had the breakup that would scar me forever. But I also didn’t have something good and true enough to give me hope.
What I’d had was a string of hookups and failed dates. Cigarette butts, ticket stubs and pitchers of beer. A night of chemicals and false intimacy with a guy from my sociology class. I could never remember if his name was Jack or Jake. Maybe John.
On top of it all, I was sick for months. It was the nasty crud that attaches like lichens to your bones during the grayest part of an Ohio winter.
I called for pizza. This was a big deal, because I don’t call for anything. I ordered a large pizza with two toppings — mushrooms and pepperoni.
“Um, is everything OK?” said the man at the greasy pizza place.
“Yeah,” I said, choking back a sob. “Why?”
“I dunno. You just sound kinda bummed,” he said.
So I spilled everything to this stranger. I blubbered until I could barely breathe. I told him how I wasn’t performing well in my classes. I was sick. I was lost. I was having trouble finding solid friendship, let alone love. I was tired. I was broken. And it all came together to make one very miserable Valentine’s Day.
“I’m really sorry,” he said. “Is there anything else you’d like to add to your order today?”
My dorm was at the farthest spot on campus while still being campus, so by the time the pizza arrived, the box was soggy with hardened orange grease. I flipped open the lid.
The toppings of the pizza were arranged in a smiley face. My pizza man had also scrawled in black marker on the inside of the box, “Cheer up Maggey.”
My heart swelled. I imagined my pie-in-the-sky future with this mysterious pizza man. He’d always listen to my concerns. Whenever I needed him, he’d come around in 30 minutes or less. And every time I got blue, he’d be there to turn my pepperoni frown upside down. I picked up the phone to call him back, to chat him up, to make a date.
After one ring, I hung the phone back on its cradle.
I didn’t know what love was. But I figured some things are better left to imagination and pizza boxes.
***
Grown-up
My friend Kye and I made elaborate plans for our first Valentine’s Day with our new skydiver boyfriends. I don’t remember exactly why we did what we did — only that it had something to do with giving us enough time to prepare dinner and slather ourselves in self-tanner.
We armed our guys with disposable cameras and sent them out on a crazy photo scavenger hunt. They had to solve puzzles to get the clues, then go to the destinations to take pictures, then wait for an hour at a drug store while the photos were developed. It was kind of like “The Amazing Race,” if “The Amazing Race” had no point, no finish line and no reward whatsoever.
Together our boyfriends found roses at the market, sought out candy makers and bakers, went up to the observation deck of Carew Tower, the tallest building in Cincinnati. All very romantic things to do sans girlfriends.
In retrospect, some of the places we sent them were a little unfair — for instance, a lingerie shop at the mall. We did not ask the guys to actually buy us any lingerie. Just take pictures. It’s a good thing it’s NOT CREEPY AT ALL for two grown men to take photos of underwear inside Victoria’s Secret on Valentine’s Day.
At the end, the guys arrived back at my apartment with a stack of freshly printed photos and some high expectations. And in return they received a dinner that absolutely did not justify the kind of time Kye and I spent making it. I think we made a green salad and rolled some Trader Joe’s pizza dough into a heart shape.
“OK, we did it!” my boyfriend said, exhausted but triumphant. “Now what are you going to do with the photos?”
“Oh. You expect me to do something with those?” I said.
Clearly, this plan could have used some work, but my boyfriend didn’t seem to care. He was happy to do something that made me happy, and he did it without question.
I didn’t know what love was, but I was pretty sure I’d just watched it come and go and run all over town and back again. And so I married that guy.
