If you look beyond the lewd innuendos and sarcasm you’ll find a romantic in recovery.
I’ve never been a fan of chick lit or rom-coms and I dislike Disney princesses and all that pink shite intensely. Luckily for me I ended up with a house full of boys; I’m definitely not a ladette though (coining that phrase shows my age). When a romantic film is done right… it kills me, goosebumps, snots and tears. I suppose anything with Ryan Gosling or Chris Pratt in it will have me enthralled although that may have nothing to do with the plot.
The first movie to send my teenage hormones into overdrive was The Breakfast Club. When John Bender gave Claire his earring I felt a physical pain in my chest and cried my eyes out. Twenty-odd years of cynicism later and I hope Claire had the sense to get herself to a good college and didn’t end up in a trailer park rearing Bender babies.
Now that I think of it, she did do that thing with the lipstick, so maybe a career in porn or Benidorm awaited her.
Either way John seemed a tad unstable and did come from a line of violent men. Why are dangerous guys always so attractive to our fragile young selves? Look at Dirty Dancing… Johnny Castle was, and is, a joy to look at….. oooooh the danger, his clothes are obscenely tight, he smashes his car window with a pole and he sleeps with old ladies for cash and Baby is almost always in awe and slightly frightened of him.
I did Wuthering Heights for my leaving cert and was desperately in love with Heathcliff… his brooding dark, looks and his sociopathic ways. Oh, to be loved with that intensity. Wouldn’t it be the height of romance for a guy to open your casket twenty years after your death to gaze at your decomposing face and remove the side of your coffin so that he may lie next to you in death? Uh-huh.
On the flip side, there was always Michael J. Fox and Andrew Mc Carthy if you liked your guys clean and wearing a gilet. The only danger from these boys was the possibility of an oedipal situation (Marty Mc Fly) or a penchant for puppeteering (yep I invented and patented that word) the dead.
Valentines is not about romance.. it’s forced and fake, it makes single people feel crap and puts couples under pressure to give each other a card.
I’m not into it, it’s the week after my birthday and I would rather die than go to a restaurant and gaze into my husband’s eyes as everyone around us gazed at their phones and how many facebook likes their romantic picture got.
My husband is shite at organised romance and I have learned how to avoid tantrums (mine) on the day.
Last year I left a blank Valentine’s card and a pen on the kitchen table and told himself to fill it in which he duly forgot to do.
This year I went shopping and bought myself a handbag and came home and thanked him profusely for my Valentines present. I think I even began to believe myself and he was thrilled to be off the hook. That makes him sound like an awful asshole, but he’s not. He once bought me an easel when I said I liked to paint. He taught me to drive without throttling me. He changed my maternity pad when my waters broke in the Rotunda. He tells me I look better with weight on and I don’t need make-up when I know for a fact that I look like boiled shite without it. That’s romance! When you have three boys under seven and you’re at a stage when you don’t apologise for farting and pee with the door open, romance is in the everyday.. the stolen kisses when the kids’ heads are turned, when he fills my petrol tank, and when he changes the empty toilet roll… I’m lying that last one has never happened.
It turns out he’s so appreciative of my self-gifting that he’s taking me out for dinner.. but the 13th and not the 14th so we’ll have an empty restaurant and minimum PDAs.