This week during an interview on The Project, Michael Bublé — Mr. Love himself — dropped a shocking revelation that he’s actually not that romantic.
Instead, Bublé tells us he’s just a guy who likes to watch football and eat nachos and drink beer, and look, as a bona-fide celebrity myself these days, I’m here to tell you the struggle of such mistaken perception is real. Oh, you write poetry? You must be so romantic.
And sure, I’ll confess I’ve been known to be swayed by the occasional small romantic gesture in my time. And there’s every chance I’m partial to dates that comprise of candles and wine, and old-fashioned men who still hold doors open for women and surprise them with offerings of hand-picked wildflowers or tenderly scrawled love notes.
But when it comes to Valentine’s Day, I’m right there with Bublé sitting in my trackies on the couch eating nachos, drinking beer and not listening to, well, albums by Michael Bublé. And I understand the confusion; how a romantic poet normal woman who writes about love can also be a Valentine’s Day insurgent, so to help clarify, I’ve compiled a list of all the reasons I think February 14th should be cancelled, stat.
Omg, we’ve only been dating for a month, do I actually have to get him something for Valentine’s day? We’ve been together fifteen years now, do I have to cook her dinner tonight when I just want to watch the game? She just rang to tell me her friend got engaged and I only got my girlfriend a box of chocolates, I’m totally screwed. GOD, THE PRESSURE I CAN’T BREATHE. This is especially true for the avoidant-attachments out there (I’m not terrified of commitment, you’re terrified of commitment), too much expectation on Valentine’s Day will send the relationship down. in. flames. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Nothing says I love you more than being forced into gestures of commercialised romance; smarmy Hallmark cards, love-heart-shaped-everything, generic roses, maybe some OTT jewellery thrown in there too. Hey darling, looks like we can’t afford to get little Bobby braces this year but here are those diamond earrings you wanted for Valentine’s Day so you could show your sister up this year. Naaaw, and who said romance was dead?
Oh, how I love a good cliché, said no one ever. Clichés are the worst at the best of times, but never more so than where romance is concerned. Clichéd songs, clichéd movies. Flowers, teddy bears, chocolates, 50 Shades Of Grey <shudder>, pink and red lingerie, pink and red balloons, pink and red candles, WHY MUST EVERYTHING LOOK LIKE A FLAMINGO?! Think outside the box, people.
4. Social Etiquette.
For many, Valentine’s Day raises the issue of social awkwardness — programmed as we are on special days to greet others accordingly, ie, happy birthday, happy New Year’s Day, happy Mother’s/Father’s Day, happy Australia Day etc. Do we say happy Valentine’s Day to people we pass on our morning jog? Our pharmacist? The grocery delivery guy? If we greet our work colleagues in such a manner will they think we’re practicing correct social etiquette or sexually harassing them? Genuine concerns the socially awkward among us lose sleep over.
HOLD THE PHONE THERE IS ANOTHER TOP 10 LIST OF HOW I CAN CELEBRATE VALENTINE’S DAY WITH MY LOVED ONE THIS YEAR. Or top 10 gifts I can buy. Or top 10 songs to put on my V-Day playlist. Or top 10 ways to make him fall in love with me this Valentine’s Day. Enough of the lists, already! Get out of my social media so I can return to my regular scheduled newsfeeds. Oh, wait.
6. Social Media.
If there’s anything more nauseating than regular Insta-perfect couple photos, it’s Insta-perfect couple photos on V-Day steroids. #besthusbandever #datenight #loveyoutothemoonandback #solucky. DEAR GOD IT HURTS MY EYES. Seriously, nobody wants to look at their friends getting engaged while they’re home on the couch getting drunk. Have the decency to keep that sh*t to yo’self.
You’re no doubt reading this thinking I’m just some cynic who’s been dumped one too many times, and look, you’d be right. We aren’t just born with these avoidant-attachment tendencies; it takes many years of rejection and abandonment to perfect such thorough aversion to relationships.
It goes without saying then, I’m no expert in love. What I do know, however, is I’m not interested in token gestures of commercialised romance. I’m not interested in a declaration of love dictated by a calendar date or marketing strategy; in posting Instagram photos on February 14th just so I can prove to the world, look how much I am loved.
Give me the real stuff. Give me the Saturday night folding socks, the Sunday afternoon budgeting, the Monday morning alarm. Give me the exhausted falling into bed together after dealing with teenage children. Give me the arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes, the laughter at times you’d rather be crying, the arms to collapse into when the world is falling apart, the hand gently squeezed to say, I’m here, even without words spoken, the carrying of one another’s pain and grief and sadness, the celebrating of success and joy and all those perfect moments never forgotten.
As the self-confessed non-romantic Bublé says, “I do kind things for my wife, but I think they’re different than buying flowers on Valentine’s Day, I think it’s, you know, doing the poopy diapers or waking up and letting her sleep in, I think those to me are romantic things.”
Anyone can practice romance one day of the year, but showing up for someone every day of the year? That takes some hard work, compromise and sacrifice. But will always carry a greater sentiment of love than a Hallmark card ever could.