Gooey, mushy, happily-ever-afters that are actually starting to rot my brain, like watching too much bad reality TV. With the exception of Rainbow Rowell, I have been force feeding myself literary sugar that is leaving me with a mind-ache and vehement repulsion at any bookcover featuring hand-holding, kissing or cuddling. I’ve romanced myself out.
Just in time to watch Fifty Shades of Grey.
Oh yes, I’m seeing it.
The ticket has been purchased. The concession snacks will be ordered and I, along with a few friends, will gorge myself on the book-to-movie adaptation that, let’s face it, is barely a notch up from the highly anticipated Magic Mike sequel (which I shall also be seeing. I am still female, and what Channing Tatum does with his hips should be illegal. Or enforced. Something.) But I’ve read *so* much of this literary candy that I’m fearful for my writing. I mean, we write what we read, right? If I keep on reading these gooey, ooey candy-coated pieces, I’m going to start turning out the same tooth-decaying words. And I don’t want to do that. It’s just—I like romance. I do. I like it because it’s hopeful and optimistic and it never hurts to fantasize that this scenario could actually happen. Somewhere. To someone. But I incorporate romance into my works so I don’t want to muddy the waters with something I’ll end up rolling my eyes at in a few years. I need to stop. Now.
*takes breath*
*slaps on candy patch*
*looks in mirror and repeats affirmations. I will not read candy, I will not read candy, I will not read candy*
****Disclaimer I don’t think candy’s bad. I just need it in moderation. I have a bag of skittles I keep at work for a little extra treat when I’m stressing or angry or worried or just need a pick me up. And they do the trick. But shoving an entire bag down my throat will probably give me diabetes. And I don’t want insulin for my brain.
In case you’re wondering, candy read thus far this year includes:
But if you’re looking for a solid, good romance that doesn’t leave you rolling your eyes (I’ve placed this in the prime-rib category) I would highly recommend Rainbow Rowell’s Attachments. Or Eleanor & Park. Or basically anything by the woman. She can do no wrong.
Yes, I know it’s not here yet. But if you’ve been to a Walgreens, Wal-mart or any other American retailer since mid January, you’ve probably been blinded by all that red and pink. I kind of hate it. And no, not because I’m one of those girls who is super anti-Valentine’s Day because I never got enough cards in school—believe me, I’ve gotten over it. I just don’t like red. It’s like being slapped in the face with anger. Or war. Or severe P.M.S. Nothing about the color red is appealing to me. Nothing. Neither is its goofy half-brother orange, but that’s a rant for a different day. Most times, I avoid anything red because it reminds me of my seventh grade science teacher—perpetually pissed off. It’s such an angry color, which makes me wonder why Bruce Banner turned green which is supposedly the color of tranquility?? I don’t know… I just don’t like red. Pink is tolerable. If it’s on a cupcake or a pig. Maybe a cookie.
So every January and February rolls around and I have to prepare myself for the inevitable blindings. I forget it’s coming up, because we just finished New Years and the next holiday is a MONTH away. A month! But we can’t prepare too early for chocolate giving and eating—no, no, no, that’d be outrageous. Except, Batman and I really don’t do Valentine’s Day. We did once, I think. Or was that an anniversary? I don’t know. We celebrated something in a fancy restaurant toward the beginning of the year. Could’ve been a spring cleaning for all I know. But Valentine’s Day really isn’t a holiday for us. What we get excited about—I kid you not—is picking out our candy. Oh yes, we are candy coinsurers, if you call starring at all the options and after ten minutes of going back and forth, finally deciding on what we want the other to get us. Yup. That is what seven years of a relationship will get you. Drool and indecision. Of course I’m wincing the whole time because I’m starring into a wall of angriness disguised into hearts and roses. I should probably make it fast—pick something and get out—but like my Christmas presents, I have to stop and examine everything. That’s right—I actually torture myself in the pursuit of selecting the best candy option. Maybe I’ll want a bag of dark chocolate doves this year, or a cane of pink Kisses with almonds. Or maybe a heart shaped box with the cast of Duck Dynasty on it. I pointed this out to Batman to which he replied:
“I don’t want beard in my chocolate.”
Well noted. And agreed.
We only found ourselves trapped in the red light glow once so far, but we still have two weeks. Or is it three? I’m not really counting, except until it’s over so my eyes can adjust again. Plus, I need to get past eating all that candy. It’s doing nothing to help my resolution to lose weight as I hear massive amounts of chocolate only add to your waist, not decrease it. Bummer.
So…
I’ve been wearing my sister’s maternity pants for the last few days. Not to work or anything, but to Wal-mart and Chili’s and pretty much everywhere I travel when I actually leave this apartment. You kind of can’t tell they’re maternity pants and even if you can… oh well. They’re amazing. I grabbed them in a mad dash to look for more jeans this past weekend and haven’t taken them off. My other pair broke when I was trying to fix the zipper that technically wasn’t really broken. At first I was slightly embarrassed to even yank them from my drawer, but really, I think it’s a blessing in disguise. Can we all just agree to wear maternity pants? Can that be the new thing? If shoulder pads and leg warmers worked in the eighties, why can’t oh-so comfortable velvety maroon pants be the new thing? Come on… let’s get crazy for once and put comfort above style. It’s a novel idea, I admit, and it may just be because I’m wearing them right now. Jealous? HAHA of course you are. Believe me—I’m not leading you down a path into sloppiness hell. I mean yes, we may pass through, but it’s just a pit stop. And who doesn’t like sightseeing?
I’ll tell you what—they’re a lifesaver when all the major holidays roll around. Like Thanksgiving, like Christmas, like Valentine’s Day. Oh yeah, I’ve kept them stashed at the apartment since my sister let me borrow them years ago because I needed a pair of pajama pants. And I’m never giving them back. Even if she pops out another kid, I’ll go and buy her more because I just can’t part with this amazing creation. And honestly, I’ll probably be wearing them when Batman and I check out Walgreens this week to do another drool and stare session. It hurts my eyes but at least my lower half will be comfy. Because, as I’ve come to realize these past few days, maroon is the color of love. Not red.
