I was Chez Target a week or so ago and found myself sandwiched in line between a gaggle of adolescents in front of me, and a senior citizen behind me. One of the girls was buying a”¦well, let’s just say she was “feverish” for a certain young singer (I can’t get myself to write the name or I might get an earworm of epic proportions). They were squealing in a way only hormone driven girls can. The woman behind me was quiet, and I saw that she clutched, perhaps a little shyly, a romance novel and a bag of cat food. I noted her wedding ring, but had the strong sense that she is a widow.

I tried not to stare at the old lady (I’ll call her Emily), but in fact, she was downright striking. I don’t mean that Emily was “once beautiful”””although she must have been. But that she is beautiful now. At 80 or so, wrinkles, grey hair and all. I tried to understand what it was about her that hit me. I left the store wanting to know her story, what made her resonate to a perfect stranger.

It hit me as I started writing the sequel to Steamside Chronicles (I’m sure this stranger will color that book). Emily (at least in my imagination), is a woman who likes herself. She radiates it””not in a loud way, but in her graceful, quiet demeanor. What had she seen in her life, I wondered? Born probably around 1930″”how many loves, losses, celebrations, victories, defeats”¦ Thinking about it took my breath away. I thought also of the girl with the Fever calendar of her pop idol. To her, romance is a crush on someone she won’t meet, or perhaps a fixation on a boy at school who looks like Edward Cullen.

And then there’s me, in between the two, although regrettably a bit closer to Emily in age. Will I like myself at 80? Will some young girl think I’m all that and a bag of chips? In other words, do I love myself?

Romance novels are full of couples who come together because of some paranormal bond, or an instant lustful connection, or heaven help us””a secret baby or two. Often the barrier to be overcome before the happy-ever-after is that one or both of the characters has clichéd baggage””a past love gone wrong. But it strikes me that in the real world, those who form romantic connections that become lifelong commitments are people who loved themselves first. I know, that’s Psych 101, but it’s true. You can’t give of yourself freely without self-love. You can lust, you can surely obsess, and we all know you can become a caretaker or enabler”¦but those aren’t love.

I think the best romance novels are those in which we watch the heroine or hero, or both, grow to love themselves. Not because they are loved by another, but because they triumph beyond their personal baggage. I saw an old lady who seemed satisfied with herself, and a young girl who is in love with the unattainable. Sandwiched between the two, I know what work I have left to do. I think this Valentine’s Day, I’ll buy a card and a box of chocolates for the most special person I know. And maybe by the time I’m Emily’s age, I’ll actually believe that I am special.

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