Valentimes.

I write this as my 20th Valentines Day draws to a close.

I, like all single women the world over,

really don't have much enthusiasm for a day

that makes me want to do nothing more than wear sweat pants, eat ice cream, and watch every Jane Austen movie ever made.

Twice.

And possibly tear up a little at all the "Mrs. Darcy"'s and those looks that Colonel Brandon gives Marianne Dashwood.

But only a little.

Obviously, Love was heavy on my mind today.

But I wasn't thinking about the love I don't have,

At least not very much.

I mostly thought about the kind of love I hope I have in the future.

And here's what I want:

I've come to realize, as I've grown older,

that I don't care if my husband is rich

or looks like Brad Pitt

or is an amazing chef

or a super genius

or Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

All I care about is that he's a good man

who will help me raise a family

who will be my best friend forever.

Someone who will be the big spoon

and resident Spider killer

and will pretend to love what I cook even if I burn it.

Which will probably be most of the time.

The End.