A Love Letter to the Spa Boy

Dear Spa Boy,
The thought may have occurred to you (or not) that today is one of those dreaded days of forced external signs of affection. But don't panic. I for one am here to tell you that not all us chicks are in it for the flowers, the candy or the frilly lingerie (although for the record, I like fuchsia Gerber daisies, Godiva Truffles and anything from Victoria's Secret Pink collection). On the contrary, and I think I speak for many women, we're in it because we like you, we really like you. I don't even mind that after 7 years in the same house, you still can't remember which day the garbage goes out. Or the pile of shoes that collect around your horrendously embarrassing La-Z-Boy every couple of days. I don't mind that the last time I left the house, I came home to find one Spa Cat locked out in the cold, coyote-filled night, two Spa Dogs starving and with full bladders and one Spa Boy passed out in aforementioned hideous chair. I don't mind that you "don't do toilets" and that you use every single pot and pan we own on the occasion that you decide to make dinner. And I truly, madly and deeply appreciate you tolerating the dark side of my Cancerian ways: crabby outbursts, emotional tirades, crying spats, sleepwalking, etc., etc. I can't even imagine what goes on behind those glasses that magnify your eyeballs to super-nerdly proportions. Thank you for helping me bloom into the Spa Girl that I know am in my head and enabling me to spread the good spa word. Ain't love a beautiful thing? Happy Valentine's Day Spa Boy. P.S., Tonight's garbage night. Photo courtesy of Godiva Chocolatier.