The Heart Smells Sweet

My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…..

It is Valentine’s Day and instead of being outside, enjoying the wintry chill as I contemplate an appropriate gift for the flip side of my heart, I am trapped indoors, watching the snow come down, hearing it pelt the skylights on the top floor of my house. The noise is a distraction and keeps me from thinking romantic thoughts. Instead, I keep wondering when the glass will shatter and bury me in shards of jagged glitter. I suppose there are less messy ways to exit this life. I hope that my face is recognizable when they finally find me.
I don’t look forward to snow the way most people do, including Glenn who pants for the next super aerodynamic sled that will bring him down faster than a Nike swoosh on the slopes of Prospect Park. Oh please. It’s just snow. In the Philippines, we don’t do snow. For me to be sitting inside wrapped in layers of silk, cashmere and wool when I should be splayed on a chaise sipping mojitos under the searing heat of the sun is enough to break my heart.
The truth is, I am guilt-ridden because I didn’t get anything for Glenn. Not for lack of time because I always have time. I can always make time. Not for lack of inspiration because there’s plenty of stuff out there to suit every budget, imagination, and taste. But that’s it: it’s all stuff. Just one more thing to display on a mantle, his desk, or his dresser. Just another item to add to the clutter. Another tchotchke to dust.
Who needs it when we have each other.
But I am a creature of habit, a fool for the marketing pressure of advertisers, and a stickler for ritual. I am also fiercely stubborn and don’t like to be told how or what to do. It makes my Filipino-fish sauce-infested blood boil when I think that unless I have something wrapped in red, this Valentine’s Day will be a major disappointment.
This shiksa is in a bind!
Rather than agonize over this dilemma, I do what I always do best when faced with a problem: I confront it.
I pick-up the phone and call Glenn.
“I’m sorry but I didn’t get you anything for Valentine’s Day.”
“Neither did I.”
“Oh.”
“Are you angry? Because I can if you really want me to.”
“Nah, it’s okay. It’s just Valentine’s Day.”
“And you are my Valentine.”
We hang-up after I manage to elicit a promise that he will at least try to come home early. Then I grab one of my Jo Malone bottles and spritz the nectarine blossom and honey scent all over his clothes. Glenn is mine after all and he better not forget it.