I’m a hopeless romantic.
I’m in love with love.
And I’m madly in love with my husband.
But I don’t do Valentine’s Day.
We don’t exchange gifts or do anything special.
It just seems too contrived to me, too commercialized.
I don’t want my husband to tell me he loves me on February 14th because society says he should. I want him to tell me every day, because he wants to.
I don’t want $75 red roses on V day. I’d prefer a fistful of wildflowers on a random Tuesday because they made him think of me.
I don’t want a fancy candlelit dinner out with the rest of America. I’d prefer a cozy dinner at home with my daughter throwing food on the floor and the dogs begging to lick our plates.
I don’t want a mushy hallmark card that he didn’t write. I’d prefer a heart drawn in the foggy bathroom mirror.
I don’t want a fancy date night. I’d prefer a dance with my husband in the kitchen to the rhythm of Kherington’s laughter.
I don’t want chocolate covered strawberries… wait, yes. Yes, I do. I always want that.