I’m a romantic, hopeless many would say.
Jane Austen, Tennyson, Byron, breathless words and sweeping gestures. The whole thing. I love it and I believe in it.
I write novels that have happy endings and there’s no doubt that love can conquer all.
I was getting my nails done last week and Jamie, the fantastic woman that does my nails, asked me what my husband and I were doing for Valentine’s Day. She proceeded to tell me that the spa was offering Chocolate Massages for couples.
After I had a mental laugh at the thought of Michael being subjected to a Chocolate Massage, I responded that we do not celebrate Valentine’s Day.
She was taken aback and sort of gave me an “Oh, poor dear. No Romance?” look.
Valentine’s Day just doesn’t seem romantic to me at all, never has. It brings to mind cheap white bears holding satin hearts, really cheesy looking lingerie and overpriced flowers.
I like chocolate, but not while I’m getting a massage.
I don’t begrudge people their Valentine’s Celebration. If you’re into it, go crazy.
What bothers me is when any one day is held up as the beacon of great romance. Romance is so much more than any bouquet or box of chocolates. Flowers die and chocolates are eventually eaten, but a great kiss…that feeling could last forever.
Romance is epic and Valentine’s Day, like the little heart candies, is just a footnote. Please have a Very Happy Valentine’s Day but don’t confuse the two.
That’s all from the laundry room. Long kiss goodnight.
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