Let’s face it. Valentines Day only matters when you are single, or 14 years-old. I am neither, and both. I’m separated, so not quite single not quite coupled. And, though many would say I have the emotional maturity of a 14 year-old, I’m actually 37. Mercifully, V Day is on a Monday this year. Unmercifully, Monday is my kidos day/night with their dad. Per our current arrangement, he spends time with the boys at our house while I go elsewhere. Alone. On Valentines Day.
I could go to a friend’s house, but all of my friends are married and the only thing more depressing than being alone on V Day is being with happy couples on V Day. On any other day I love going to movies alone, but on Valentines Day? That is a level of humiliation even I won’t subject myself to. I could go to a bookstore and pretend I spend all my free time reading instead of surfing the net and watching trash t.v.. But I wouldn’t buy anything because I already own 7 self-help books that I’m certain will spontaneously open at any moment and start working their magic in my life. In fact, I feel more and more organized everyday when I wake-up and see “Power to the People, not the Piles!” on my bed side table.
However I choose to spend Valentines Day, I doubt I’ll remember it a year from now. I have very few Valentines memories. I mostly remember the awkward ones. I remember when I was 17 and this boy I thought was “just a friend” gave me a basket with balloons, a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates, a big white teddy bear, and underwear. I was horrified. I was horrified because I didn’t like like him. Not like that. I was horrified by the size of the gift. Mostly, I was horrified by the underwear. In retrospect my heart goes out to this brave young suitor and I give him credit for covering all of the “traditional” gift bases.
This Valentines Day I am hoping for no gifts. No odd declarations or representations of feelings left on my doorstep, please. No white teddy bears; no charcoal drawings of me you sketched in a bar one night; no poems you thought I’d like because don’t all women like poetry? I’m going to spend this Valentines Day like any self-respecting sorta-single 37-year-old woman would: watching The Bachelor. In times such as these I like to remind myself of how good I’ve got it: my love life might be in the pooper, but not once have I used the phrase “amazing journey.”
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