by Roz Warren

At some point in the relationship, every man I’ve ever gone out with has looked at me sadly and concluded, “You aren’t very romantic, are you?”

I am not. I am loving and funny and loyal. But romance has never been my thing. Hearts and flowers? Strolling hand-in-hand? Candle-lit dinners for two?

No, thanks.

Love at first sight? Not for me.

In contrast, the very first time my sister met her future husband, she knew that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. She was just 18.

Larry was undeniably a catch. Nice. Adorable. Sane. Stable. Jewish. Not to mention Harvard pre-med.

But still…

“You’re so young!” I told my sister. “Have fun! Shop around.”

“I don’t need to shop around,” she said.

Apparently not. They just celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary.

This is a fabulous achievement, and they’re my favorite married couple. And yet, going through life yoked to another person like that, no matter how wonderful that person might be, is my personal idea of hell.

I’ve always been this way.

When the other little girls were drawing pictures of bridal gowns in their school notebooks and dreaming about Mr. Right, my dream was to grow up, live on my own in a fabulous Manhattan penthouse and write books. (Except during my Emma Peel “Avengers” phase, when I wanted to grow up, chase villains with a debonair partner and effortlessly throw villains across the room.)

Here’s how un-romantic I was: after “Snow White” aired on “The Wonderful World of Disney” and all my 12-year-old pals were singing “Some Day my Prince Will Come,” I refashioned the lyrics so they’d apply to me.

“Someday my prince will come,” I sang, “ and I’ll tell him to go f**k himself.”

Despite all of this, as a child, I adored Valentine’s Day. Every year my sister and I spent hours crafting hand-made Valentines from every art supply we could get our hands on. On Valentine’s Day, the class took turns going around the room delivering valentines to each other. Then we opened them.

What a great moment! Elaborately crafted hand-made cards. Vintage old-timey Valentines. Dozens of little heart-shaped candies. Poems and notes and messages from your best friends. Sprinkle-covered heart-shaped cookies. Pink iced cupcakes.

It was something I looked forward to all year, but it wasn’t about romance. What did we know about romance? We were in elementary school. For us, it was a celebration of friendship. When we hit junior high, Valentine’s Day stopped being about Good Friends and began being about True Love. And I stopped caring about it.

Mark, the man in my life now, is more romantic than I am. (Everyone is.) He’s also smart enough to realize that, as wonderful as he is, I’m never going to wake up one morning, look deeply into his eyes, and start singing “You are so beautiful to me.”

And yet, I sometimes think about trying to reclaim the joy I used to feel on Valentine’s Day. Why does it have to be exclusively about Romantic Love? Why can’t those of us who just aren’t into that emotion (or who are between partners) be inspired by our grade school selves and celebrate, instead, the friends we love?

Not that I plan to go around handing out glittery hand-made construction paper hearts to all my pals. (Although, perhaps I should.) I’m thinking of going with something even more outside the box. I’ve consulted the Heifer International website (www.heifer.org) and see that I can express my appreciation for our friendship on this special day by purchasing a llama for a Third World family in your name.

Or, if we’re not quite that close, how about a hen?

We non-romantic types can start a new Valentine’s Day tradition! While others exchange romantic gifts and walk hand-in-hand on a moon-lit beach, the rest of us can say, “I’m so glad you’re my friend!” and exchange celebratory poultry.

Roses are red/violets are blue/I’m so glad we’re pals /Here’s a chicken for you!

Happy Valentines Day!

Local resident Roz Warren is the author of “Our Bodies, Our Shelves: A Collection of Library Humor.”