You see, I wouldn’t call myself romantically challenged by any definition; after all I cried watching Bambi, squeaked with glee when Ross and Rachel finally got together and drew love hearts for 3 weeks after reading Twilight. But when it comes to Valentine’s Day and its subsequent consumerism, I draw the line. I’m glad it’s over for another year. Please don’t think of me as a miserable old mooh but a bouquet on Valentine’s Day just feels like an obligation rather than the token of affection it is intended to be.
This won’t come as any surprise but statistically men are more than happy to go without a gift on Valentine’s Day, as opposed to women who may say they don’t want something, but secretly do. Do we really need grand and predictable gestures to assure ourselves that our Romeo or Juliet is still truly, madly, deeply?
Why is it that we need cards adorned with googly-eyed cupids and nougat filled choc hearts to make us feel loved? Don’t get me wrong I love chocolate/diamonds/flowers/insert-your-favourite as much as any other person but when I think of my other half I don’t think of cards etc. What I see in my mind’s eye, are the little idiosyncrasies that make him unique and which have me gushing….like the way he smiles when I wake him in the morning. His utterly contagious hyena laugh and how he pulls up his cute little chin when he’s concentrating. Like the way only one of his hugs can soothe me after a hectic day and how he can’t remember people’s names but every football score since the first caveman kicked a pebble. The way he chameleon-like propels his tongue out to moisten his fingers when he’s reading the newspaper and his amazing ability to talk to anyone about anything. The way he – even after 11 years – still thinks I’m gorgeous.
This is what makes him special to me and why I love him. 365 days of the year, for the next and the one after that. Now, if you’ll excuse me – I have got to go and eat that box of Thornton’s I gave him for Valentine’s.