At 1:30 on Sunday morning, Rob and I headed out for the night. Yes, you read that correctly – 1:30am.

My friend has a new beau and he’s in town for the week from London/Nigeria – he’s a world traveler, expat and possibly super hero and divides his time between the UK and Africa.

I had a photo shoot on Saturday and was ex-haust-ed when I got home (why a shoot? I’m updating my other website – the one I use to pimp out my words to magazines and newspapers). The day was such an experience and I met one cool chick with a camera – shout out Cheryl! Needless to say, I was pooched when I got home. But when your friend’s new man has traveled dozens of hours to see her, the least you can do is make your way to Pravda Vodka Bar on King Street to sip on some Dom Perignon to welcome him to your city and celebrate. Right?

Yes, you also read that right – we luxed out on champagne worth more than my pay cheque last week. True story.

I won’t go into details, but the man has had a long, successful career. He likes the finer things in life and isn’t afraid to share the fruits of his labor. Just so happens I love fruit.

Rob and I got home at around 4:30 Sunday morning, which never fails to make us feel like teenagers again, enjoying youth and freedom and fun in a way that makes us feel alive and happy that we’re kid-free and living in one of the best cities in the world. That is, we feel all of those things until we wake up in the morning and feel like 29 and 31 and wish to God we drank less, slept more and didn’t wolf down bacon ‘n’ eggs at 3:30 that morning. Things just don’t digest the same way, apparently.

Youth, as they say, is truly wasted on the young.

At around noon yesterday – Valentine’s Day – Rob surprised with me a medium Americano from Chery Bomb, a box of Godiva truffles and Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda. The man knows the way to my heart: Coffee, chocolate and poetry… oh my. Oh and he also gave me one red rose, which is a bit of inside joke because I don’t like roses, which is exactly why Rob gave me one. There’s a bit of a back story to red roses and how they relate to Valentine’s Day. And no, it’s not a love story, so no need to prep for a gag fest.

Mid-way through my box of truffles and thumbing through poetry, I still hadn’t touched the rose. It was a sweet gesture, absolutely, and  I thanked my husband, but nah, I’m much more into my other mouth-watering gifts than the lowly red rose. I don’t know why the aversion to red roses, but I have one, so whatever. And before you say something out loud, like, “What a douchebag she is… doesn’t even appreciate the rose… from her husband… poor guy…” you should know that Rob takes great pleasure in giving me roses because I don’t like them. We try not to take things too seriously and this is his way of reminding me of just that. So, for the rest of our lives, I will continue to not love roses and he will continue to give them to me.  I will leave the rose in its cellophane, staring at it as I eat truffles and then Rob will  trim the stem, prune back the leaves and pick off the thorns and place it squarely in the center of my pink carnations arrangement sitting on our coffee table. It’s sort of our own symbiosis and it works.

The rose is just sitting there now, towering above my frilly gals, sticking out like a soar thumb. Thank God roses die in three days or less.

My carnations are now on day six. And I’m down to my second last truffle.

… that’s what love is. Ya, something like that.

***

Eleven years ago, Rob sent me a box of red roses and picked me up at my parent’s house after two moths and two days of dates, dozens of shared bottles of wine and not a single kiss between us. He was a bit of a slow mover.

He took me to a romantic little restaurant with a piano and waiters with white gloves. He had the lamb and I had pasta, I think. Later that night we went to one of our favorite pubs in the suburbs. It was quiet and only a few lonely men took up residency at the bar.

After a bottle of wine and two hours of the kind of conversation that makes you fall in love with someone, we leaned in close. Really close.

I think the kiss lasted at least a minute. I know this because that’s how long I can hold my breath before wanting to gasp. And I know for certain that I didn’t breath the entire time he kissed me. And no, it’s not because he took my breath away – although he has long since swept me off of my feet – there had been shit loads of garlic in my pasta and not a mint in sight.

When it was over, we pulled back, in soft shock. It had been two months and two days since our first date and things had been building up to this one first kiss for weeks.

Looking back, I really don’t know what we were waiting for or how we had manged to go so long without it. It was the best last first kiss I ever had… despite the roses.

***

So, how was your weekend?