My Arduous Valentine
Or: The Quest to Find a Card That Says "I Love You, But Not Too Much, And Also I'm Sorry About Tuesday"
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
Valentine's Day is a trap.
Not a romantic one.
A logistical one.
A test designed to expose every weakness in your character.
Every failure in planning.
Every gap in your emotional vocabulary.
It is February 13th.
7:47 PM.
And I am standing in a Walgreens.
In the Valentine's Day card aisle.
The picked-over Valentine's Day card aisle.
Searching for the impossible:
A card that expresses affection without being saccharine.
Humor without being dismissive.
Sincerity without being performative.
And also—crucially—
A card that acknowledges that Tuesday happened.
Tuesday.
When I may have said something.
Something I didn't mean.
Something that needs addressing.
But not so directly that it ruins Valentine's Day.
This card must thread a needle.
Navigate a minefield.
Perform emotional alchemy.
And I have—
I check my phone—
Thirteen minutes before this Walgreens closes.
THE SITUATION
Let me explain Tuesday.
We were cooking dinner.
Ash—my wife, my love, the person I'm now desperately trying to buy a card for—
was telling me about her day.
A difficult patient.
A coworker who said something passive-aggressive.
The usual trials of hospital nursing.
And I—
exhausted from my own day—
said:
"At least you have good benefits."
"At least you have good benefits."
I heard it come out of my mouth.
Watched it land.
Watched her face do that thing.
The thing where she's deciding whether to engage or just... let it go.
She let it go.
Which is worse.
So much worse.
Because now it's there.
Hovering.
Unaddressed.
Waiting.
And Valentine's Day is tomorrow.
And I need—
need—
a card that somehow says:
"I love you deeply and also I'm an idiot sometimes and also please don't hold Tuesday against me forever."
But in card form.
With a nice design.
Under $7.
THE AISLE
The Valentine's section is devastated.
A retail crime scene.
Like a tornado touched down specifically here.
Cards scattered.
Envelopes missing.
Some cards bent.
Some cards clearly opened and read and rejected and shoved back wrong.
This is what happens when you wait until February 13th at 7:47 PM.
This is what you deserve.
The remaining cards fall into several categories:
Category 1: Too Much
"You are my EVERYTHING. My WORLD. My REASON FOR BREATHING."
No.
Too intense.
We've been married for two years.
We're comfortable.
We're in love.
But we're not "reason for breathing."
We're "reason for buying the good coffee."
Category 2: Too Funny
"Roses are red, violets are blue, I tolerate you more than most people, and that's pretty cool."
Cute.
But not after Tuesday.
After Tuesday, "tolerate" reads as passive-aggressive.
I need earnest.
Earnest.
Category 3: Too Generic
"Happy Valentine's Day to Someone Special."
Who? Who is someone special?
This could be for anyone.
My wife.
My dentist.
The person who makes my sandwich at Subway.
TOO VAGUE.
Category 4: Too Specific (Wrong Specific)
"To My Sexy Valentine" with a cartoon of a muscular man and a woman in lingerie.
We are not cartoon people.
We are real people.
With real bodies.
And real exhaustion.
This card is for a different marriage.
Category 5: The Ones Clearly Left Behind For a Reason
"You're like a fart—silent but deadly."
No.
Just... no.
THE PANIC
I'm running out of time.
Running out of options.
I pull out my phone.
Text Ash:
"Hey, you still awake?"
Typing...
"Yeah, why?"
I stare at the message.
Consider telling her:
I'm at Walgreens trying to find you a card and they're all terrible and I'm sorry about Tuesday and I love you and—
But I don't.
Because that would ruin the surprise.
The gesture.
The performance of Valentine's Day.
Instead I write:
"Just wanted to say I love you."
Typing...
"Love you too. Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just thinking about you."
Typing...
"Okay weirdo. See you soon."
I pocket my phone.
Look back at the cards.
Eight minutes until closing.
THE WORKER
A Walgreens employee approaches.
Young guy.
Maybe twenty-three.
Name tag: KYLE
"Sir, we're closing soon."
"I know. I'm looking for a Valentine's card."
He glances at the decimated aisle.
"Yeah, uh... good luck with that."
"Do you have any in the back?"
"In the back?"
"Yeah, like, stock. More cards."
He looks at me with the patience of someone who's had this conversation seventeen times today.
"If it's not out here, we don't have it."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Because last year—"
"Sir. We don't keep extra Valentine's cards in the back. What you see is what we have."
I nod.
Defeated.
Kyle starts to walk away, then pauses.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why didn't you buy a card earlier? Like... last week?"
Valid question.
Devastating question.
"I thought I had one," I lie.
I didn't think I had one.
I just... didn't think about it.
Until today.
When I remembered that tomorrow is Valentine's Day.
And Tuesday happened.
And I'm a fool.
Kyle nods slowly.
"Yeah. You're not the first guy to come in here tonight with that look."
"What look?"
"The 'I'm in trouble' look."
He's right.
He's so right.
"Good luck, man," Kyle says.
And leaves me.
Alone.
In the Valentine's wasteland.
Six minutes until closing.
THE COMPROMISE
I start grabbing cards.
Any card that's not actively offensive.
I'll buy several.
Read them all at home.
Choose the best one.
Return the others tomorrow.
Wait.
No.
I can't return them.
I'm reformed.
I don't return things anymore.
Damn it.
Damn my newfound ethics.
I put the extra cards back.
Stand there.
Staring.
And then—
Then—
I see it.
One card.
Partially hidden behind a "Congratulations on Your Divorce" card.
(Who puts that in the Valentine's section?)
I pull it out.
The front has a simple design.
Watercolor hearts.
Muted colors.
Not too cutesy.
Not too serious.
I open it.
The pre-printed message inside reads:
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying. Happy Valentine's Day."
I read it again.
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying."
It's perfect.
It's perfect.
It addresses Tuesday without mentioning Tuesday.
It's sincere without being overwrought.
It's an apology wrapped in a declaration of love.
It's—
I check the price sticker—
$6.99.
I'm buying it.
I'm buying this card.
THE CHECKOUT
I approach the register.
Kyle is there.
"Found one?"
"Found one."
He scans it.
Looks at the message.
Nods approvingly.
"That's a good one."
"You think?"
"Yeah. Covers a lot of bases. Apologizes without being too specific. She'll appreciate it."
"You sure?"
"Dude, I've seen like forty guys tonight. Trust me. This is a solid choice."
"What if she thinks it's generic?"
"It's not about the card, man. It's about the fact that you got one. You showed up. You tried."
He bags it.
Hands it to me.
"$7.52 with tax."
I pay.
"Good luck," Kyle says.
"Thanks. And hey—sorry for asking about stock in the back."
"It's cool. Everyone asks."
THE ADDITION
I sit in my car.
In the Walgreens parking lot.
Card in hand.
And I realize:
The card is good.
But it's not enough.
Not after Tuesday.
I need something else.
Something to show I thought about this.
Planned.
Tried.
I look around.
The stores nearby are closed.
Except—
The gas station.
Still open.
I drive over.
Walk inside.
Scan the options.
Flowers: Wilted carnations in plastic sleeves. No.
Candy: Those heart-shaped boxes that are 90% air. No.
Stuffed animals: A bear holding a heart that says "I Wuv You." Absolutely not.
And then—
In the back—
The refrigerated section—
Cherry Coke Zero.
Her favorite.
The one she can never find.
The one she always mentions when we pass it.
"Oh, they have Cherry Coke Zero! Should I get one?"
And I always say, "If you want."
And she says, "No, I'm good."
But she's not good.
She wants one.
She always wants one.
She just doesn't buy it.
I grab a six-pack.
And a single rose.
One of those single roses in a plastic tube.
It's not fancy.
But it's something.
It's more than just the card.
THE RETURN HOME
I get home.
9:03 PM.
Ash is on the couch.
Watching something on her laptop.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey."
She looks at the bag in my hand.
"What'd you get?"
"Uh... supplies. For tomorrow."
"For what tomorrow?"
"Valentine's Day."
She smiles.
That smile.
The one that says: Oh, you remembered.
"You didn't have to get anything," she says.
"I wanted to."
She closes her laptop.
Looks at me.
"You know you don't have to do Valentine's Day, right? It's... it's a made-up holiday."
"I know."
"And I'm not expecting anything—"
"I know. But I want to. Because—"
I pause.
Consider whether to mention Tuesday.
Decide against it.
"—because I love you."
She stands.
Walks over.
Hugs me.
"I love you too."
We stand there.
In the kitchen.
Holding each other.
And I think:
The card is in the bag.
The Cherry Coke Zero is in the bag.
The slightly sad gas station rose is in the bag.
Tomorrow, I'll give them to her.
And maybe—
maybe—
she'll know what I'm trying to say.
VALENTINE'S DAY MORNING
I wake up early.
Set the card on the counter.
Next to the Cherry Coke Zero.
Next to the rose, which I've put in a glass because we don't own a vase.
It looks...
Fine.
Not Instagram-worthy.
Not impressive.
But fine.
Sincere.
Ash wakes up.
Comes into the kitchen.
Sees the setup.
Stops.
"Orson..."
"Happy Valentine's Day."
She walks over.
Picks up the card.
Opens it.
Reads.
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying."
She looks at me.
"Is this about Tuesday?"
Damn it.
Damn it.
"Maybe a little."
"You don't have to apologize with a card."
"I know. But I wanted to. Because I was—I shouldn't have said that. About the benefits. You were telling me about your day and I—"
"It's okay."
"It's not. I was being dismissive."
"You were tired."
"That's not an excuse."
She sets the card down.
Picks up the Cherry Coke Zero.
"You got me Cherry Coke Zero."
"Yeah."
"You remembered."
"I always remember. You just never let yourself get it."
She smiles.
Opens one.
Takes a sip.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"And the rose?"
"Gas station. But it's... it's a rose."
"It's perfect."
She's lying.
It's not perfect.
But she appreciates it.
That's what matters.
THE REAL GIFT
We spend Valentine's Day doing nothing special.
Watch a movie.
Order takeout.
Sit on the couch.
No fancy dinner.
No elaborate plans.
Just... us.
Being together.
Not performing.
Not pretending.
Just being.
And at one point—
during the movie—
she turns to me and says:
"You know what I appreciate?"
"What?"
"That you try."
"I don't always get it right."
"No one does. But you try. And that matters."
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying."
The card.
She's quoting the card.
Which means she actually read it.
Actually appreciated it.
Actually got it.
And I realize:
Kyle was right.
The card was good.
Not because of what it said.
But because I showed up.
I tried.
I remembered.
And sometimes—
sometimes—
that's enough.
THE LESSONS
Lesson 1: Don't Wait Until February 13th at 7:47 PM
This is obvious. But apparently I needed to learn it the hard way.
Lesson 2: The Card Doesn't Have to Be Perfect
It just has to be sincere. Even a semi-generic card can say what you need it to say if you mean it.
Lesson 3: Small Additions Matter
A six-pack of their favorite soda they never buy themselves? That shows you're paying attention.
Lesson 4: Apologize Directly, Not Just Through Gestures
The card was nice. But saying "I shouldn't have said that about Tuesday" was necessary.
Lesson 5: Valentine's Day Is Not About Grand Gestures
It's about showing up. Trying. Remembering. Doing the small things that say "I see you and I appreciate you."
Lesson 6: Kyle From Walgreens Gives Good Advice
Listen to Kyle. Kyle knows what he's talking about.
THE EPILOGUE
It's February 15th now.
The day after.
Valentine's Day clearance is in full effect.
Cards: 50% off.
Candy: 75% off.
Those sad stuffed bears: 90% off.
I walk past the Walgreens.
Consider going in.
Buying next year's card now.
Being prepared.
But I don't.
Because I know myself.
I'll forget where I put it.
Or lose it.
Or convince myself it's not quite right.
And I'll be back here.
Next February 13th.
At 7:47 PM.
In the picked-over Valentine's aisle.
Panicking.
But at least I'll know:
It's not about the card.
It's about showing up.
Trying.
Remembering.
And maybe—
maybe—
that'll be enough.
Again.
THE DEDICATION
To Ash.
My arduous valentine.
Not arduous because you're difficult.
But because loving you—
loving anyone—
properly—
is work.
Good work.
Important work.
Work I'm honored to do.
Even when I forget to buy a card until the last minute.
Even when I say stupid things about benefits.
Even when I show up with gas station roses and Cherry Coke Zero.
You see the effort.
The intention.
The trying.
And you love me anyway.
That's the real gift.
Not the card.
Not the candy.
Not the manufactured romance of February 14th.
But the daily choice.
To show up.
To try.
To love.
Even when it's hard.
Especially when it's hard.
Thank you.
For being my arduous valentine.
Every day.
Not just tomorrow.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, card tucked in a drawer for safekeeping. Next to the empty Cherry Coke Zero cans. Next to the gas station rose, now dried and preserved. Not because it's special. But because it represents something. The effort. The trying. The showing up. Valentine's Day ends. But the work continues. Every day. Forever. Arduous. Beautiful. Worth it.)