I managed to coax the Hubster into not making Valentine's day, a day for our love because it was his day, not ours. We don't know him and we don't even know if his love was ever true. The date does not mean anything to us, unlike our anniversary or birthdays. So why should we celebrate a day that has nothing to do with both of us, right?
Although I don't want a ride on the bandwagon, I am guilty of being swooned by the overly dramatised and extremely commercialised Hollywood ideas and definition of love and romance.
I'm guilty for thinking that because I'm not lavished in Tiffany's, flowers, surprise trips to Paris, romantic evenings out or a candle-lit dinner, that I am not loved and that there is a lack of romance in my life.
But I cannot possibly share how much Hubster really loves me. He doesn't show it with romantic poems, surprise deliveries at work or a call to say sweet nothings. Isn't that what the world wants us to think (or believe) what love and romance should be?
Love is him cleaning up after Pepper.
Love is him finding a song he thinks I may like and sharing on my FB wall.
Love is him combing and drying my hair when I'm utterly exhausted.
Love is him finishing what I can't because I don't want the food to go to waste.
Love is him saying the bakes are good even though they are dry and tasteless.
Love is him catching the bugs and clearing spiders and their webs around the house.
Love is him letting me follow my dreams even if it means less of 'our' time.
Love is him sitting next to me while I cry, doubting my dream, and telling me that I'm better than that and that I can do it simply because I can.
This true love is not the kind of love that movies infested my little brain with or the kind of romance that society expected for me.
This is so much better.