valentine’s day.

“This is the first time in a long time that I’ve looked forward to Valentine’s Day. I’m usually like, ‘F*ck it’.” This is what the man said to me a few days ago, right before he kissed me on my forehead after a quick meet up.

“Oh, really? Are you planning something?”

“Yep, I have a few things up my sleeve.”

I’m shocked. Not only because he’s planning a day of surprises, something that seems out of the norm for him, but also because I haven’t really thought about Valentine’s Day. It’s crossed my mind, and we talked about wine tasting very briefly, but I’d forgotten about it.

Of course, if I don’t hear from him or see him on Valentine’s Day, I’ll be a little perturbed. But to be real here, we’re in that tricky stage of courtship that makes Valentine’s Day a sketchy subject. We will have known each other a little over a month by then, which is not long enough to expect much. But we spend enough time together to expect more than just a “Good morning” text.

I was actually more concerned with seeing him on Super Bowl Sunday. Most men prefer to spend that special day of brolic celebration with their boys. It’s all male everything: their adrenaline is pumping, liquor is in their system, bets are on the table, and the only thing that women are good for is handing them a plate of chicken wings. I wanted to see if he liked me enough to include me on this special day, without expecting me to cook or clean anything.

I am a tomboy deep down on the inside. Grew up with male cousins who wanted to wrestle and play basketball in my grandmother’s backyard for eight hours straight in the summer. When I began to fully understand football in high school, I was delivert! I am not a super diehard fanatic, but I love watching the second half of my home team’s games, and I am always down for a Super Bowl watch party. Very rarely have I been able to attend one with a boo, though.

There was the guy from last year who became sullen and quiet every time I mentioned football (probably because he’s a former player who cost his team a spot in the playoffs and can’t seem to live it down... I found that out through one of my Google investigations). There was the ex a few years ago who went to Vegas with his boys during the game to celebrate his birthday. And I can’t forget the ex who rooted for any and every team, which made him super lame, and took away all of my desire to watch the big game with him. Lastly, there were the years that I spent watching the game with my girls.

This year, when the Seahawks beat the Packers, I immediately texted The Man to find out his plans. “You wanna watch the game with me? Bet!” He was almost more excited than I was. We ended up at a private party thrown by his friends at a local club. I had no idea I’d be one out of four women in attendance, surrounded by 15 guys slamming dominoes, eating ribs with double fists of vodka, talking so much shit I thought my ears would need a baptism. It was a lot of fun, until the play that destroyed Black History month happened (you know what play I’m talking about).

The next day, he told me I was a hit with the fellas. “They're happy I finally found someone who talks as much shit as I do,” he beamed.

Real talk, this was my idea of Valentine’s Day: spending time with The Man in his element. I am not the sappy, romantic type. I dislike flowers and I barely have a sweet tooth. We can go out and have dinner on any night of the week, and Valentine’s Day cards are a waste if there isn’t a heartfelt, personal message inside. But having me join in with your friends jumping up and down yelling at a big screen tv with big burly men pummeling each other for two and a half hours? That’s what makes me feel special.

I’m little nervous about this coming Valentine’s Day. I’m not big on surprises, and I’m not sure he knows me well enough to secretly plan something that won’t result in a super side eye. I explained all of this to him, but he's still intent on keeping it all a secret.

Pray for him ya’ll. And pray for me, too. I have absolutely no idea what to do for him, either.