I’m not one of those girls who wears black around Valentine’s Day (in fact, I am currently sporting a red t-shirt that says, fittingly, ‘I’m with Cupid,' essentially the best play on words in t-shirt form of all time in the history of time) or curses the ‘man’ for creating such a hallmark holiday that preys on the fragile emotions of 20 plus single people who live alone, sans cats might I add.
No, I didn’t have any real plans, but I am not bitter. I spent it doing everything every single girl ever pictured in a movie would have done had a day in their chick-flick-world been Valentine’s. I stayed in and watched not one, but two movies that involved loved ones with Leukemia. I cried my eyes out while junking on potato chips, sour patch kids, and cookie dough. Add to that Vodka and Chaka Khan and you’ve got the first scene of Bridget Jones. You can call this my diary.
Truth is, in a secretly sadistic way, I love Valentine’s Day. It’s the one day I can wallow in self pity on being single/having no one who loves me and no one stops me. I can wear red and pink with a purpose. I can admit to ridiculous fantasies that my secret admirer (I have one, don’t even deny it, he’s just shy) is going to show up on my doorstep with a single red rose (or better, a bouquet of tulips, my favorite) and take me out on the most romantic night of my life. When that doesn’t happen, I can just eat more cookie dough.
It turns out- the day most single people groan about, dread, contemplate curling up under a rock during, isn’t so bad after all. I got through it, I survived. I do have one gripe, however. That the word 'Valentimes' which refers to the ‘Times’ you had on ‘Valentine’s Day’ never gets used around me again. I will punch anyone who says to me, “How were your Valentimes?” Don’t test me.