So, I didn’t get a Valentine’s Day gift this year. Not even a card.
I’m single and have been for about 9 months now. Fortunately for my sex life, my place of employment is rather lax with monitoring their AA battery stocks.
Not that I’m overly concerned. I like not feeling obligated to muster up more than a 2 word conversation with somebody after working for 9 hours. I don’t really miss those romantic early morning jabs in the small of my back, and there’s always that other thing – not being asked questions you really shouldn’t answer honestly. Just about everyone’s had the “What are you thinking?” enquiry. I mean, how on earth do you answer that honestly?
“So, tell me, what are you thinking?”
“Um…I was thinking that magpies look like they should have arms. Seriously – have you seen those funny bastards run?! "
I guess I’m kind of funny when it comes to stereotypical romance.
Don’t get me wrong, I love spontaneity and the thought and feeling that can go into romancing someone you care about – I just usually don’t find the usual “romantic” stuff anything short of tacky and rather terrifying.
Single red roses in a plastic box invoke the same reaction in me that most people have to chewing aluminium foil. Teddy bears (even worse if they’re holding little hearts that say “I Luv You Beary Much!”) are likely to have their stuffing removed to be made into little cushions for the couch. Post haste.
Dead set, the ultimate guy would just have to turn up at my place with a decent curry; a couple of Red Dwarf DVDs and a nice bottle of wine, and that would be enough to have me considering whether it would be appropriate or not for me to wear white at our wedding.
….Maybe if my mother could stop herself from snickering.
One of my ex boyfriends couldn’t have been accused of buying me a stereotypically romantic gift for my birthday a few years ago. He got me a toy dog that used to make whining noises and humping movements when you turned it on. The piece de resistance was its oversized willy, which had a lamp in it that glowed red when it reached the peak of it’s whining and humping. Aaaah, my Romeo, you know me so well. I’ll bet the guys that separate the rubbish at the dump pissed themselves when they found that little Nugget O Lurve.
In saying all that, I’m a bit of a traditionalist at times. On occasion, I like the man to make the plans or decide what we’re going to do. Wishy washiness usually results in conversations a bit like this;
Me: “So, my little pumpkin head; what are we going to do tonight?”
Him: “I dunno, love. Whatever you want to do”.
Me: “Aaaawww, I’ve decided what we’re doing for the last 4 weeks in a row. You make the plans this time”
Him: “Naah, you decide. I don’t mind what we do”
Me: “I’m kind of glad you said that, because what I really wanted to do was dress you up in my Year 10 uniform, go shopping for lady’s sanitary products together and then staple your ears to my guitar case”.
So, I think for now I’m probably better off single. I’ve got a new body pillow, a good book and a gift voucher for Battery World and everything’s looking just peachy. I can’t see my knight in shining armour rocking up with Penang Chicken and a nice Shiraz anytime soon. Besides, at least marital aids don’t ask you what you’re thinking.