Dipping your chips in someone’s potato and gravy isn’t a euphemism. It’s love

Dipping your chips in someone’s potato and gravy isn’t a euphemism. It’s love. And it’s far longer lasting than a wilting, overpriced guilt rose.

When you get to dip your chips in someone else's potato and gravy, that's not a euphemism … it's love. Pictures: Supplied

Back when I was young, single, and dinosaurs roamed the earth, Valentine’s Day mattered.

It was a time before social media — before couples could show their loved-upness daily with a sea of soppy Tik Toks and carefully-curated couple shots on Insta, and singles could easily mute, swipe on by, or delete and ignore.

Back then, February 14 (with the exception of tight-arses who had the perfect excuse to not shell out a cent by declaring it an evil US export of commercialised crassness that meant the world was going to hell in a handbasket) was a day of grand gestures, overpriced dinners and awkward mystery admirer cards.

For one night, even the unhappiest of couples could put those pesky singles in their place, because, rather than sit at home on the lounge not talking to each other, they could pay outrageous dollars to sit in restaurants ignoring each other.

And they could smugly toast a world in which holiday prices on a twin-share basis didn’t strike fear into their hearts; elderly relatives didn’t wonder aloud over Christmas lunch at their solo status, and home loans were easy to come by, because: two wages.

Living the dream: A happy couple dines at a restaurant. Picture: Supplied

It was a time when the office weirdo could get away with being a ‘secret admirer’ with an anonymous card in spidery handwriting, WEIRD CAPITAL LETTERS and extensive use of love hearts, without HR being called in.

A time when exes best forgotten could shell out for some dodgy, overpriced roses in the hopes of a final “meeting of minds” or other bits. Now, you just reconnect 365 days a year on Tinder. Or Hinge. Or Bumble. Or Grindr. Or whatever it is the singles are using these days.

Overpriced guilt rose, anyone???? Picture: Supplied

A time when Valentine’s Day was the day the person you’d rejected several times, firmly, could legit have another shot via a romantic card without being labelled a stalker. Because: ROMANCE.

A time when random rose-sellers rejoiced, because nobody who hoped to still be breathing at the end of the night would refuse to shell out $20 for a wilting long-stemmed rose in a restaurant when everyone else had been shamed into buying one.

Meanwhile, the singles would watch bunches of flowers borne past our desks bound for the “winners” at life, then head home and wait for it to be over.

Occasionally we’d stage a rearguard action, gathering with other defiant singles to drink wine and publicly toast our freedom. Invariably that would end messily with one of the group having one shot too many and blubbering over a love lost. Awks.

Anonymous admirers used to be cool and mysterious. Now they give off stalker vibes. Picture: Supplied

BEST. DATE. EVER.

It was against this background that I inadvertently had the best Valentine’s Day of my life.

It was a stinking hot, Sydney summer day. A “February hair” day, with the humidity at its worst, hair at peak frizz, pits at peak sweat.

I’d tumbled out of bed late, and decided the only way to start the day was with a beach swim.

As I headed, with the rest of the city, towards Bondi I realised I’d miscalculated badly.

Everywhere I looked, they were there: couples. Hand-in-hand strolling to the lights, hugging as they waited to cross the road. Lips locked as they queued for coffee.

So now it was hot, humid, my car airconditioning was on the blink, the traffic was heaving, and it was bloody Valentine’s Day.

My phone rang, and I hit answer (yes officer – it was on hands-free – all above board here). “What’s doing?” my best male mate asked.

“Right now?” I began tersely … and the rant was unleashed.

“Right now, I’m stuck in traffic, resisting the temptation to get a bull bar installed on the car and spend the day mowing down happy couples because all I want is a damn car park and a swim, and they’re all loved up playing tonsil hockey before I’ve even had coffee. Should I pick you up, and we can end up in jail together because it’s probably the only place we’ll get a reservation to eat out tonight?”

“Ooh, we are in a bad way,” he said, well versed in my propensity for exaggeration, profanity and drama. “See you at the beach.”

We spent the morning swimming and dreaming up scenarios for how the loved up couples frolicking in the shallows would break up. We were the worst, meanest versions of people we could be.

Then we walked to KFC.

Ordered a shed load of food. Sat down to picnic.

And he said: “Schippy, you can dip your chips in my potato and gravy if you want.”

It wasn’t a euphemism. It’s why the Colonel invented potato and gravy.

And it was the most romantic thing EVER.

Not least because not only was Phil extremely possessive of his potato and gravy, but also because we knew we’d still be talking to each other this time next year. Unlike the ghosts of many exes past.

A WORD OF ADVICE, PUP

At this point, I feel moved to offer a word of advice to Michael Clarke ahead of Valentine’s Day, 2023.

Maybe just sit this one out, Pup. Don’t make it your circus. There’s always next year.

But back to my best Valentine’s Day ever.

THIS. This is LOVE. Picture: Supplied

We swam again.

Dreamt up more failed relationship scenarios.

Agreed that we were bad people, and that shrinks would have a field day with how pathetically jealous, bitter and petty we were. Then downed more beers and laughed some more.

We went to Maccas for seconds.

Fries. And chocolate fudge sundaes.

I didn’t share my fries though.

I would do anything for love. But I won’t do that.

NOTE: Debbie Schipp is now happily in a relationship. They don’t ‘do’ Valentine’s Day. But they may exchange of chocolates, after buying double and scoffing half in secret on the way home. And then they’ll forget their anniversary. Debbie will never dip her chips in anybody’s potato and gravy except her eternal mate, Phil’s. She still does not share McDonald’s fries.