Not at all.
Milady grew up in Communist Poland. International Women's Day was their closest equivalent to our Valentine's Day - in fact, she had never heard of Valentine's Day until I first mentioned it to her.
For you and me - Christmas, Valentine's Day, Name Days, Birthdays and Anniversaries various may seem like silly things foisted upon us by commercial interests. Things to be resisted rather than embraced.
But for ladies - it is different.
So very different.
It gives them an opportunity to be the center of attention - to bask in male appreciation.
Which is a good thing.
It is how they are designed.
So - $3 for a single rose from the local supermarket, a $4 spurge for some particularly pleasant Pepperidge Farm cookies (half of which I ended up eating, myself), and a pleasant dinner out - and I have one very happy, very appreciated, very loving girl.
The price for this was not high.
The glow should be good for several days to a week.
The underlying bonding of such celebrations is cumulative and is good for a much longer time span.
Possibly even for a lifetime - or two.
Considering that Milady is a Polish girl in America - strangerette in a stranger land - a long, long way from home - all because of me - well -
She is certainly an International Woman.
International Women's Day is her Special Day.
Never turn down the opportunity to appreciate your lady.
Just make sure that you are happy doing so and you do it in your own way.
Tailored to what makes your particular lady particularly happy.
The best definition of love that I have encountered - was it Theodore Sturgeon? - is that state in which the well being of another is more important to you than your own.
I think that pretty well hits the spot.
Best regards,
Epaminondas
_________________________________________________________
I Knew a Woman
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!
Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,
Or English poets who grew up on Greek
(I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek.)
How well her wishes went! She stroked my chin,
She taught me Turn, and Counter-turn, and stand;
She taught me Touch, that undulant white skin:
I nibbled meekly from her proffered hand;
She was the sickle; I, poor I, the rake,
Coming behind her for her pretty sake
(But what prodigious mowing did we make.)
Love likes a gander, and adores a goose:
Her full lips pursed, the errant note to seize;
She played it quick, she played it light and loose;
My eyes, they dazzled at her flowing knees;
Her several parts could keep a pure repose,
Or one hip quiver with a mobile nose
(She moved in circles, and those circles moved.)
Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:
I'm martyr to a motion not my own;
What's freedom for? To know eternity.
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.
But who would count eternity in days?
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
Theodore Roethke
1954
