by Kiersten Hallie Krum
It’s Valentine’s Day on Saturday which tends to bring out the anti-Valentine’s Day posts or pro-Valentine’s Day posts, whichever is your poison. As a romance writer, and romance novel reader and vehement supporter, you’d think Valentine’s Day would be my Nirvana. Honestly, it barely registers on my radar and that’s okay. I’m not particularly jazzed about Arbor Day either, although I do celebrate Ice Cream Day and Vodka Day religiously. Often together.
Last week, several of my romance writer friends had a Twitter convo (but of course) about Valentine’s Day and how they didn’t need a specified day of the year to tell their loved ones that they love them.
Here’s the thing: many other people do.
Sure, the majority of us don’t *need* a day to tell our loved ones we love them. We don’t *need* a day to show our mothers and fathers we love them either, but we have one for each. None object to those Hallmark Holidays because, on a whole, we agree that parents deserve a day on which to be recognized, mostly because they go much of the year without so much as a thank you. Likewise, for some, Valentine’s Day may be everything, perhaps their one sure chance to be reminded that they’re worthy of love (as is everyone).
Whether a person is worthy of love has nothing to do with the trophy of a gift or the check mark of having a lover with whom to celebrate Valentine’s Day. No one is less worthy for not being Kay Jeweler’s target audience. We’re marked but how we love whomever and whatever we love on every day. But if for some it takes one specific date to be reminded to show it, well then, thank God for February 14th.
One Valentine’s Day found me at 10 PM in lower Manhattan in a windy, torrential downpour trying (and failing) to hail a cab after working a full day and taking a 3-hour class at night for my Masters degree. That night, I pretty much hated Valentine’s Day because those wankers celebrating it had basically commandeered all the damn cabs. I felt anything *but* sexy and romantic though I probably would’ve professed undying love to any cabbie who took my fare. What won my heart that night was a hot shower and a smoking cup of hopped up hot chocolate. Years earlier, I spent a very different Valentine’s Day at a play in a red-hot flapper dress and black heels with the gift of a red rose on my wrist. I came home to a single peach rose delivered while I was out by a particularly charming man. Both are great memories for very different reasons. Both were, at the time, exactly the love I needed.
There is no one way to be in a relationship, romantic or otherwise. There are, dare I say, more than 50 shades to how we show love.
Follow Lady Smut. We’ll love you long time.
Postscript: I stumbled upon this yesterday (man, I love The Twitter) and it’s just 50 Shades of Perfection. Enjoy.