Rent Me

The youngest son informs me on Friday that he's been rented by his girlfriend, in honor of Valentine's Day.  Call it heartfelt, call it a school fundraiser.  I call it twisted.  As usual, I'm compelled to look at this situation from various angles.  That my son is now part of an elaborate rental agreement means many things, each more disturbing than the next:  He's growing up.  At 18, he's rentable, whereas at 10, his heart was non-negotiable.  It belonged only to me.  But now there are others who want a piece.  What's up with that?  Back in preschool, pre-K, pre-adolescence, he'd hand out chocolate hearts and tiny cards that said "Be Mine,"  but his heart wasn't in it.  He did it because he had to, and if he wanted his own stash of chocolate, he had to play along.  On Valentine's Day, boy or girl, every kid got candy.  But now he's buying roses and jewelry and making dinner reservations for two.  A new chamber has opened in his heart, making room for Cupid.

"What does 'rent me' mean, exactly?" I ask.  "It means I give her a gift and chocolate.  I'm not really sure what else."  "And what does she do for you?"  Dumb question.  I don't want to know the answer.  "Nothing."  "Interesting arrangement."  He opens the door. I run after him and give him a kiss. He may be rented, but I can still claim a corner of his cheek.  I'm not ready to forgo that property.  I hand him the heart-shaped sign.  "Aren't you supposed to wear this today?" "No."  "Why not?"  "It's a done deal." "So you're off the market."  "Guess so."   Off he goes to Reseda.  I look at my husband.  "Wanna rent me today?"  He thinks it over.  "Can I get a long-term lease, instead?"  "Sure," I say, "but I'll need a security deposit."