I don’t ‘get’ Valentine’s day.
It’s not that I’m unromantic – I appreciate the odd pink card covered in shiny hearts as much as the next girl* – but I hate that fact that people just go out and panic-buy any old red glittery thing in a bid to “show they care”.
To my mind, it’s just not romantic if you have to do it.
Romance, to me, is spontaneous – it’s all about those little moments when you get a surprising reminder of how much that other person means to you. Like when, out of nowhere, they announce that, “You have the best bum in the world.” It’s when they rush out to buy a song they heard on the radio because you’ll think it’s the best thing since the invention of the kettle. It’s when they can look at you in your scabbiest old T-shirt, hungover and pissed off, and still think, “You’re the best company I could ever ask for.”
As soon as the spontaneity is gone, it’s not romantic. It’s love. And love isn’t something that can be proved in a day. It’s something that grows over the course of time – a long, enduring emotion that remains when the thrill of the chase has gone**. Love is stability – it lasts longer than one paltry day.
So if planning a day of spontaneous romance is as impossible as proving your love in 24 hours, what’s the point? To my mind, none at all. I get reminded every day how loved I am when I wake up to a steaming hot cuppa. I’m sure if a lot of people thought about it, they’d realise that those little benign acts are really far more meaningful than a mass-produced piece of plastic, shaped like a heart.
*… assuming the next girl is Cruella De Vil.
** If you’re lucky.