It is no wonder that I have no time for romance and all of that fluffy stuff in a relationship. The last time I did believe in it, I was in a May-December relationship with a man who psychologically damaged me, for a short period of time anyway.

He’d make the gestures, then take them away. He’d give it, then he’d take it. He was beyond sweet, then he was psycho. He’d hold it out and I’d reach for it, then it was gone.

It was actually the only romance I’ve ever experienced, but in the worst of contexts.

Now, in the middle of my life I’m way too pragmatic. Maybe jaded but I’ll go with pragmatic, practical.

If, in the wintertime, he plugs my car in before we go to bed, because I forgot to (and it won’t start unless the block heater is plugged in y’all), that’s my idea of romance. Or early in the morning, when he is leaving for work, he sweeps the snow off my car at the same time as he did his, that’s sort of romantic.

It’s good enough for me and I’ve turned into a good enough kinda gal.

Who needs roses for no reason and poems, dinner and a movie dates, random gifts? Nah.