Jason and I have been together for years. Literally years. We’ve been entrenched in that “will they or won’t they just get married already” stage, but I can honestly say that we’ve been pretty stagnant going on four years now.

It’s always the same and, quite frankly, I think it always will be. We get up and go to work. We come home and chat about our day over dinner. We don’t speak much between dinnertime and bedtime. We have sex on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We go to the farmer’s market on Saturdays. Rest on Sundays. It’s all very perfect in that from-a-movie kind of way.

Sometimes, though, I feel bad. Sometimes I feel sad. Sometimes I feel inadequate. Sometimes I feel too good for him, but what can you do? I’m comfortable here. I’m not really willing to risk losing him to find someone better. What if he’s the best there is? Then I’m like all those other sad sacks roaming the world in the pursuit of real, true, and honest love.

You know what I think? Our idea of love is a fabrication. It’s an ideal set by Hollywood, novels, poetry, and art that normal humans can’t possibly live up to. It rejects that we are all inherently flawed and teaches us that there is just one special person out there on this planet for each and every one of us who will love us unconditionally and whole-heartedly.

I tend to disagree. I think love is a lot more simple than that. I think love it about finding that one person you can stand to be around 90% of the time you spend awake. Someone who likes what you like, but not too much. Someone who does what you do, but not too much. Someone who thinks how you think, but not too much. Someone who falls along the same lines on the political spectrum, just the right amount.

Romantic, right? I’m just kidding. It’s not romantic; it’s practical. Romance doesn’t keep the train rolling, practicality does. You know what I mean?

And I have that, I HAD IT, I don’t know which one is right anymore, with Jason. We just got each other, you know? We were comfortable and could cohabitate like the best of them.

Sure, he has his quirks, but doesn’t everyone? I mean, I know I have some habits of leaving the door to our apartment unlocked, failing to clean out the drain in the kitchen sink, and rearranging the books on my shelves ad nauseam, but he just got past them. So why can’t I do the same?

For the past few years, Jason has been on this quasi-Buddhist kick. He believes he is on the path to enlightenment and I think it’s great even if it’s not exactly for me. To each his own, right?

Right. Sort of. For four years running now, he’s asked me to do something for him in lieu of gifts on Valentine’s Day. I know what you’re thinking and no, it’s never been anything sexy. I mean, if it was, do you think I’d be here talking to you? No offense.

No, he never asks me to perform an act for him; rather, he wants me to give something up. I guess it’s part of his healthy kick. Or the Buddhist thing. Or maybe a little of both. He wants me to give up my vices so I can live a pure lifestyle, or whatever that means.

I didn’t mind giving up sugar and soft drinks that first Valentine’s Day. I’m much healthier now and I dropped ten pounds in a snap when I replaced soda with water and my body actually thanked me for giving up refined sugar. Honestly, I was happy to do it, but I didn’t realize this would become an annual thing.

The following year, he asked me to give up red meat. It was definitely harder and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t crave burgers in like a mouth-watering-going-to-die-if-I-don’t-get-one-STAT kind of way. But I guess it’s better for my heart and really I feel better than I’ve ever felt, physically.

Last year, he asked me to give up alcohol and I seriously thought he was joking. I mean, he knew how much I love a good champagne toast, a nice glass of wine, a stiff drink, or hell, even a local beer at the end of the day. I have to say that was the hardest one to get over so far, but I’ve managed to maintain a healthy social life without the drink and, man, my body is bangin’! I mean, look at me, right?

But this year was kind of the last straw. He asked me to give up smoking. I know, I know, it’s really bad for you, but I’ve already given everything else up. It’s not that I don’t want to deal with the agony of quitting or like I don’t know the health risks that come with each puff. I just like it and don’t want to stop. It should be my own decision, right? My body, my choices?

Wrong. He tested me today. He said that if I didn’t quit, it was over. Can you believe that? On Valentine’s Day of all days! I don’t like being given ultimatums, so I made it easy for him. I left first. Maybe I’ll go back and maybe I won’t. I’m sort of at a loss here. That’s why, bar keep, I’m here by myself on Valentine’s day, puffing away on my cancer sticks. Now, can I please have a rum and coke and a big old cheeseburger, medium rare?