Dear romance books,
I can’t keep this to myself anymore. Deep breath, okay, here we go. It’s always been you.
No, stop, let me finish. When I think back, all of best memories include you. Cuddled under blankets on cold nights, sprawled on the beach with you blocking the sun from my eyes, risking water logged pages under candlelight in the bath – it’s you.
I know, I know. There was that semester in college when I got super into Russian literature, but you have to believe me, it was you.
You’re the one.
Who else can hold my attention poolside while I pretend to count how long one of my kids can hold their breath?
What other genre could keep my husband interesting even though we’ve been locked in a home together for months on end other than one chock full of “snowed in with one bed” tropes?
Where would I have learned how to talk about my body and pleasure without shame, when prevailing culture didn’t teach me?
I wouldn’t be me without you.
You have been a teacher of different cultures, time periods, genders, and experiences. Sometimes you were full of fairies or pirates and other times you could have been written about my next door neighbor. But through it all, you always gave me the one thing I needed most – a happily ever after.
You set a standard of happiness and desire in my formative years that gave me confidence and made me brave as I figured out what kind of woman I wanted to become.
You made me a feminist.
I guess what I’m saying is, I love you. The big head-over-heels, shout it from the rooftops, don’t care if people see half-naked dukes on the cover of my book during a commute kind of love.
You’re the one.
Heidi is currently obsessed with watching people make bad decisions on TV, being a coastal elite, artificially avoiding any sign of aging, reading feminist romance novels, and getting the biggest laugh at her own expense. She has a husband, 3 kids, a dog and anxiety.