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.
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