A Narcissistic Valentine's Post

I don't have issues with Valentine's Day. I quite like chocolates and love notes and pink hearts and oysters and all that, and I have a husband and children, so lonely is not an option. Of course, for the wife of a chef, Valentine's Day is a lot like New Year's Eve: forget romance when your husband is making everyone else's romance possible. But I'm used to that.

This year, though, I'm not really in the mood. I Valentined for the children, because I am a good mother (Valentine-ish socks and pink and red hair ties--yes, we are excessive), but I told S we should skip it. Luckily, he gave the right answer: that's fine, but you'll probably get some chocolate anyway (his pastry chef made chocolate-covered caramels sprinkled with sea salt, I had some on Monday when my mom and I went to the restaurant for lunch, and I'm hoping that's what he means).

Which leaves the blog conundrum. Ignore it and post about my hair (to cut or not to cut)? Post about the hegemony of school Valentines (been there, done that--one of my most popular posts ever--and googling to find it, I came up with this delightful post)? Post about things I love (uh, my kids, my purple hat...BOring)?

Then I came up with an idea: what I love about me.

That one's tough, though, really tough, which of course--never one not to take up a challenge--makes me go for it. There are things I'm proud of--running two marathons, leaving No Longer Red State--but pride and love are different. There are things I love with qualifications--my hair, except when I don't--but that's no good, and neither are the things I don't love, of which I could easily come up with a long list. There are things others love about me--my eyes, for instance, only I never think about my eyes, except to think that they are too small and close together, which obviously means I don't love them.

But enough of this quibbling. Hence and forthwith: a list of things I love about me, with no explanations or qualifiers:

My wrists and ankles.

My (physical) flexibility.

My capacity for friendship.

My instinct for language.

My embrace of Popsugar and George Eliot.

My refusal to embrace jazz.

My lasagna.

Edited to add: There was indeed chocolate, excellent chocolate, though not the caramels, and I relented and sent a bevy of absurdist e-valentines (before the chocolate! I sent them last night, before the chocolate!)