I used to be such a cynic on Valentine’s Day. I thought it was cool to hate on the holiday, and to be fair, I still think it’s a ridiculous holiday, but I cringe less and start to find reasons to enjoy this holiday. Love is a beautiful thing. A thing worthy of being celebrated. Instead of focusing on the commercialism of it, how many flowers bought, how many pounds of chocolate, how many giant teddy bears, let’s think about love, shall we? Love lifts us up where we belong, right?
This movie really inspired what I thought love would look like, all the bright, bold colors, all the garishness and singing. Granted, I was twelve when I saw it the first time, but it inspired my vision of love. Sure, real love isn’t as bright and colorful as a Baz Luhrmann film, but can you blame me for wanting that? So, when I ran into bland boyfriend after bland boyfriend, I was a bit burnt out.
Now, I realize love doesn’t have to be Baz Luhrmann-esque, but it does have to be something I enjoy, whether it’s making homemade pasta while listening to Frank Sinatra together, or dancing in the spotlight of his headlights to Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me in a parking lot of a park. He dazzles me on a daily basis. Last night, when I was worrying over losing my memory. My grandma died of Alzheimer’s, and lately, I’ve been struggling over my words. He reassured me, “If you ever forget who you are, I’ll put so many pictures of us all over our home, so you’ll look at those pictures, and say, ‘Who’s that handsome man beside me?’ and I’ll say, ‘Me, and I love you so much.’ I’ll remind you every day who we are if I have to.” It was the most beautiful sentiment he could have expressed in the moment. He does little things every day to make me love him.
I don’t really feel like I deserve him, but he has made me a better woman than I was. I’m trying so hard to be the woman he deserves, and I’m trying so very hard to better myself. I don’t want to write a gooey, sappy Valentine’s Day blog, but I just wanted to get some of those thoughts off my chest. Yes, I’m nowhere as cynical as I was when I wrote about love at fifteen.
“2/13/2004 “Cynic’s Valentines” Dear You, (in a messy cursive scrawl that hardly represents my own, I dunno what I was on that day.)
Not to get all philosophical on you, but here goes. I think love is a hoax. It’s just a psychological thing that keeps us from all killing one another and to assist in passing on chromosomes from one person to another.
Love is something we invented to reassure ourselves that we’re more advanced then those two llamas humping in a field. I’m beginning to sound cynical and pessimistic, but I mean, come on, love?
Please. Cut me a break, and get over yourself already, please. I don’t mean to be cynical and break the world’s hearts, but when a commercial Hallmark holiday rolls around and everyone is gushing about first kisses….well, you start to get cynical.”
Nor am I thinking that love is the most important thing. I’ve settled, I suppose, I don’t fall for love so easily, nor am I so cynical that I can’t appreciate the beautiful thing I have. It’s interesting how much things change as you get older.