Love...is So Last Season

It’s not so easy to write a love letter. It almost never sounds right. Really, how do you even start it? What if you stuck with a guy named John? It’s got to make you consider dumping his butt every time you write “Dear…”

Even I—a person somehow able to write 500 words in a row about the dirt in my vacuum—have trouble coming up with just the right romantic sentiment. “I love you” is so last-season.

Maybe if my words sat around for a few hundred years, they’d start to sound lyrical, poetic even. Probably Shakespeare sounded dorky in his time. At the 2 a.m. last call “Parting is such sweet sorrow” had to get an eye roll from every pub wench in Stratford.

But I don’t have centuries. Today’s the day. February 14th. Valentine’s Day. Besides, “Roses are Red/Violets are blue” only works if you are in second grade. Those kids don’t know how good they have it.

I boot up the computer. Nothing like the intimacy of a laser-printed love note. A little winking paper clip jumps on my screen, “It looks like you’re writing a letter.”

Well, duh.

It should have said, “This looks like a stretch for you, lady.” Even a paper clip would know that. I haven’t even got to my husband’s name yet. I’m stuck at “Dear,” thinking about all the poor Johns out there getting the heave-ho on Valentine’s. But then the paper clip asks me if I want any help.

Heck, no. I want the little bugger to write it for me so I can get back to Spider Solitaire.

Of course I want help. How do I say all the mushy stuff without sounding like Kathy Lee Gifford? How do I keep it interesting so he isn’t sneaking glances at his latest car magazine? But not so interesting that it ends up on the Internet?

I know. I’ll tell him I’d marry him all over again. I type it out and stare at the words for a while before backspacing right over them. I know my guy. He’s going to think that means I want to renew our vows. His next thought will be “This is going to cost me” and then before I know it he’ll be wanting to see my Visa bill.

There is absolutely nothing romantic about my Visa statement. Not even the hundred bucks I charged at Victoria’s Secret looks sexy squeezed on a line between Ralph’s and Chevron.

I’ve got to come up with something else, something different, something fresh.