I mean, that's kind of the dream, right*? Love me on the good days, sure, when I'm all dolled up and well-mannered and wearing pink because it's the holiday of love and all that. Love me then, sure. But also, love my junk. Love my crap. Be crazy about the stuff that isn't pretty or clean or tied up in a neat little bow. Don't tolerate it, or accept it reluctantly, or cross your fingers I will change with proper training. Valentine's Day is nice because it celebrates love, but it's tricky because everyone works so hard to make it good-looking, at least for today. And it's nice to feel good-looking, to get all dolled up for a minute, maybe many minutes; maybe on more days than it doesn't, your love looks really good. But if you can't hang with it when it's not good-looking, well, I can't hang with it when it is. Because that's what real love is. Love of any kind, really. It is without condition.
Just as strong and crazy and can't-keep-your-hands-off-y on laundry day as it is on Valentine's Day.