Valentines Schmalentines

I wrote this back in 2011 and am reposting now for all those who aren’t feeling the love today…

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.”

© Jennifer Sparklebritches and Poop In My Hair, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Poop In My Hair with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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