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Sweetest Day, Schmeetest Day

Saturday will be the first Sweetest Day in two years where I'm not expecting a pound of candy and a dozen roses. My ex treated this day in October like Valentine's Day. So that leaves me not excited about this day of diabetes-inducing sweetness that we're supposed to show to our significant others and loved ones. 

Last year, Michael took me out for sushi. We ended up having sex in the ladies' bathroom (I tell you, those wide stalls are begging for sex to happen in them). I'm convinced this was the first sign of the end approaching. The year before, we'd done the whole cliché couple thing and had a candlelit, romantic dinner at an upscale restaurant in the North Shore. The evening continued to a fancy hotel that had a massage chair, a swimming pool and hot tub right in the room. We made love until the sun rose and exposed us like a secret. Apparently, the next year, he felt a drafty sushi restaurant would recreate the ambiance of the previous year.  Oh, and my quick screw in the loo. Ugh.

So Sweetest Day, Schmeetest Day.

After last night's post, Steven called to tell me he'd been watching an adult film, and that he wanted to try a move on me (we've never had sex). I hung up on him. This morning, at work, he came to my office bearing Krispy Kreme and a Starbucks caramel macchiato. I had to decline -- I'm water fasting. 

He asked for forgiveness. I granted it.

I spent the rest of the day praying he doesn't ask me what I'm doing for Sweetest Day. He didn't. I'm mildly relieved. If he says let's go out for sushi, I swear I'll have an instant breakdown. 

Never go out for sushi on Schmeetest Day.

You've been thoroughly warned.
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