My Valentine, My Self

It likely comes as no surprise that, as a child, my favorite activity was reading, and I would read everything I could get my hands on. Unfortunately, since I was the youngest of three girls with two older sisters, 7 and 11 years older than I am, what I got my hands on most often was Cosmopolitan magazine and Harlequin romances.

My mother's philosophy, which I don't disagree with, was, if she told me that reading those things was bad, that I would equate reading with being a bad thing that my overachieving, goody-goody self shouldn't do, so she just shook her head and let me read away. I remember bringing a copy of Cosmo on a school field trip when I was, oh, about 9 years old. The chaperone, someone's mom, I can't remember whose, saw me cracking open my copy of the latest issue, looked at me like she was debating whether to say something about the appropriateness of my reading material, then, deciding against it, asked to borrow it when I was done.

I must have read hundreds of magazines and romances during my most formative years. Our local library had (still has) a book sale every Saturday morning, and I would go and get 10 used Harlequins for $1.00. Since they take about a couple hours to read (not exactly War and Peace), I easily burned through at least a book a day, sometimes more.

Most of the stories took on one of the following formulas:

a. Damaged boy meets damaged girl, girl hates boy (and/or vice versa), boy and girl are thrown into some madcap/terrifying/ridiculous situation together where they realize just how right they are for each other, everyone lives happily ever after.

b. Boy meets girl, they are forced into an arranged or pretend marriage of some sort, they realize just how right they are for each other, everyone lives happily ever after.

c. Girl is in relationship with a very rich boy, poor boy comes along and makes girl realize she does not, in fact, love rich boy, but loves poor boy -- everyone lives happily ever after especially when, SURPRISE, turns out poor boy is in fact a VERY rich boy after all. Hooray! Everyone wins!

d. Girl is kidnapped into slavery by some sort of foreign royalty, girl and boy fall in love despite the horror of said slavery (which no one seems to acknowledge is a bad thing), everyone lives happily ever after.

Now, I'm not recommending this reading regimen to anyone, but it sure helped to shape who I am today, for better and for worse.

For one, I can't believe that I have lived this long without being kidnapped into slavery by a member of the royal family of some exotic distant land like Scotland. It's almost insulting.

(A Note from my Conscience: I am kidding! There is nothing funny about sex trafficking, which is a huge problem, especially here in NYC.)

But perhaps most importantly, it's made me, despite my supreme feminism and raging independence, a total romantic, absolutely certain that a happy ending in love is out there for me. Not a happily ever after ending filled with wine and roses and a release from slavery, but a realistic kind filled with bills and home repair, the stuff that real life partnership is made of.

Essentially, my happy ending involves it also being someone else's problem when the toilet is overflowing, not just mine. And that my cat has someone else to stalk and attack, to give my poor legs a break; I'm running out of unmarred real estate.

And despite the fact that I don't have a technical Valentine this Valentine's Day, I don't think it's a bad thing to be an eternal optimist about love. Valentine's Day doesn't make me depressed but optimistic and grateful -- grateful that I have a heart with a capacity to love a lot of people, places, and things and not just one day of the year, but all of them.

Sure sometimes I get disillusioned, wondering when I'll settle down, but no good can come out of thinking that way. I mean, I'm not Adele, turning heartache into gold, so I may as well keep on keeping on.

I've also learned a thing or two these past few months about being your own Valentine -- and by that I mean putting yourself first -- making healthy choices and setting boundaries. Realizing that only I know what's best for me and how to make me happy and fulfilled.

And I'm not just saying that to justify the fact that I bought myself several Valentine's Day gifts.

So bring on the red outfits, the love songs, the heart shaped candy boxes, flower delivery people, and grown men dressed as Cupid.

Especially the grown men dressed as Cupid. That's some hilarity right there.

Come February 15th, when many have a love hangover, I'll still feel the same. I'll still be playing love songs on my iPod, watching The Bachelor and, yes, tearing through the latest Bertrice Small book.

And I am happy to share the love and lend it to you when I'm done.

(As a footnote, I was going to close out this entry with a list of my top ten songs about love. But for anyone who knows me, you know that's impossible -- ten became twenty, which became fifty, then one hundred, so insert your favorite love songs here and enjoy! xoxo)