I meant to write something good for once, a happy bit of news from the other side of fifty for those who fear it or those who are already looking back at some peak, never believing they'll feel that good again. But, hey, good news lacks conflict, therefore momentum, therefore interest. My travel tales that play best in repertoire are the insect stories, the vermin difficulties. Non-travelers would rather hear the horrors than the glories, since they continually scavenge the newspapers for reasons not to leave home. And if you're looking, you can find.
Anyway, love. I could write about my relationship with my husband, how great things are, how well we understand each other, tidbits on the physical side of things--but I cannot. Unlike the tell-alls on TV, or unauthorized biographies, shows like Sex and the City, I can't reveal details. I'd like to, but it would feel like treachery, betrayal. The real person I'm having this intense relationship with deserves my reticence. If I tell others, I am actually according them greater intimacy than the person I really feel it for. So--no deal.
I dislike Valentine's Day for just the same reason. It is more about being seen to have a sweetheart who will publicly declare his affection than the quality of that affection in private. Another horrifying example of the modern preference for being seen as loved over really being loved.
I do like chocolate though.
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