I love love. Always have. I am a hopeful romantic from way back, absolutely addicted to grand gestures and big feelings made manifest. I can’t help it, as much as the world has reinforced my latent cynicism, like Huey Lewis, I still have believe in the power of love. I am also a contrarian by nature and one of the best ways to get me to not do something is to make me feel that it is expected. Which is why, if I am honest, I have to admit that deep in the bottom of my romantic heart I sort of hate St. Valentine’s Day. There is something sinister in this day where grand gestures are expected for those in love and pain is amplified for those on the outside of affection. I don’t think a few dozen roses or dinner, drinks and jewelry make up for not being there for your amour the other 364 days of the year. The expression of love should happen every single day and not come all at once like a death bed confessional guaranteeing forgiveness in the final reel. So with a sidelong glance at those sinistral greeting card executives, florists and restauranteurs waiting in the wings, won’t you join me now as we stand and make the Left Hand.
Continue reading