Soggy, unromantic me

There was a time when I considered rain to be romantic. When I was a little girl I used to wander out in our prone-to-flooding family backyard in waterproof boots and what - a nightshirt? Flannel pants? School clothes? - I'd often wade in the marshy portions of grass, whose organism count had risen with the inches of rainwater... and while everyone else in the neighborhood would be lining their abodes with sandbags, I would be in the grass, wondering what it would be like if John Malkovich as Mr. Hyde would spirit me away from the Valley to the wet, foggy streets of 19th century London to the life of God knows what unspeakable horror.

Yes, conveniently, I would have just watched "Mary Reilly" for perhaps the fourth or fifth time. So maybe I have major issues as to what I find romantic.

As a woman, I can admire greatly the typical idea of romance from afar. Not to say that, as a woman, I am a sentimental fiend, but I can appreciate the things that make one go "aww", since most of life's routine ins and outs don't behold that response. I'd say my favorite recollection of romance would be roses sent to a co-worker on her birthday. Who couldn't notice the contrast of golden yellow petals flecked with red, just sitting there against the grey-beige of her desk. I've never received roses at work before, and that's okay. I've received reciprocated rated-X text messages, but that's about it.

Friggin' romance: in conversations with others, it seems I'm a little jaded for my twenty-something profile when it comes to things like hand-holding, lip-locking, gift-giving, and interpersonal exchanges of words. It's beyond obvious how I'd like to think that romance isn't chocolates or diamonds or hand holding in public places. Whatever, however. Familiarity, camaraderie, in the muck with me. This is romance... unless I'm entirely mistaken?

Bonus round: What do you define as "romantic"?