"I want a boyfriend," was our eternal chorus, and we dreamed of Dodgers and Daniel Day Lewises and Rhett Butlers throwing themselves at our feet.

We thoroughly modern and liberated pre-women were in love with the idea of being in love and being courted by those knights in shining armor of the brat pack. We rented Gone With the Wind, Say Anything and Pretty in Pink and weltzschmerzed about our celibate lives.

At slumber parties, each of us would confide our visions of The Emotional Moment when we would say those three words "I love you," to that one a) unique, b) good-looking, c) kind, d) sensitive, e) funny, and f) intelligent boy. And we would sigh at each description which, inevitably, had been drawn from a few too many readings of Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights and Sweet Dreams romances.

But today, a short two years later, if my special someone were ever to whisper a heartfelt saccharine nothing or even a constipated "I love you" in my ear, I'd probably tell him to go buy some Ex-Lax. Or else start giggling.

Poor guy.

But still, I often blame him for our less-than romantic relationship.

"We're such a boring couple," I always whine. And for a while, I had him believing that it was the fault of his cold, unromantic Yankee Stoicism that we frequented the Hong Kong and talked about Scheme Z more often than we took lingering walks along the Charles under the full moonlight, exchanging intimate secrets.

But soon he stopped running his fingers through his shaggy brown locks in despair and began to notice a trend. At every Meaningful Moment, it wasn't he, but I, who preempted any tender romantic confession with embarrassed giggles and a sarcastic qualifier.

I can't help it. I want to lead a romantic life. But I can't handle having my life imitate an immortal scene from The Thorn Birds or Sweet Dreams Romance #42.

Perhaps all those years of dreaming about true love and formulating my own version of the True Romantic Moment have made me afraid that when The Moment appears in real life, it will only be an anemic shadow.

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. And I'm not quite sure what to give him. I could cook him a gourmet dinner and read him John Donne by candlelight.

Naah. I'll buy him a book. And we'll go to the Hong Kong for dinner and talk newspaper fonts.

It's what makes us happy.