This is part of the Valentine’s Day card I made for my husband.
I laughed the entire time I made it.
And when I gave it to him.
And when I told people about it.
(Just between you and I, gentle reader, it still cracks me up.)
My husband, despite some natural confusion about how an infamous dictator relates to Valentine’s Day, thought it was wonderful. Mostly, because I was the one who gave it to him and because it is homemade. To the man I married, true love means making cards instead of buying them.
So that is what I do to show I care.
Another thing I do for love is buy bananas.
I hate bananas. In fact, I loathe them. I have ever since I lived in Brazil. My first month, I was miserably homesick and in immense culture shock. My roommate, who was showing me the ropes, made me eat a banana every morning for breakfast to keep up my strength. Every damn morning.
(Side note- once I got a new roommate I never ate a banana again. Instead I had strawberry cookies and avocado smoothies every morning. Why? Because I could. Because I could.)
To me, peeling a banana is like opening a door and inviting in misery, despair, and loneliness. It makes me break into a cold sweat and start muttering in broken Portuguese.
Here is the irony: my husband can’t get enough bananas. He adores them. He wants to eat two of them every day of his life. Every damn day.
I love this man. So I buy him bananas, even though it drives me…..well…bananas.
Here is something you’ll never see on a greeting card: love means laughing at your wife’s strange sense of humor and buying your husband food that makes you want to dry heave.
Love is strange. And splendid.
Happy Valentine’s Day.