Happy Valentine’s Day or as I call it, “Spoil Choupette and Tell Her How Glamorous She is Day”. You can call it Valentine’s Day for short though. As a feline, I am the prime example of the aloof French woman who is care-free and expects compliments but accepts them with demure appreciation.
Take a cure from my black book and never accept a last-minute Valentine’s Day date (not that you’d need to). If you’re anything like moi, you have suitors lined up months in advance. But, should you find yourself surrounded by flowers your overpaid for yourself, which you swore to the cashier were for your newly dumped bestie, a half eaten box of Godiva, and a Sex and the City marathon, at least don’t admit it to the world.
There is nothing wrong with being a free feline, dating when and whom you please as long as you keeps your jaunts as private as what’s in your boudoir. My gift to you, whether you’re a ball and chain or free to pounce, is to always put yourself first. In the end, flowers wilt, beauty fades, but there’s always a neighborhood Chanel boutique to dry your raccoon-smeared eyes (P.S — This is by no means a socially acceptable look).