Fuck Valentine’s Day

This time of year the city is decorated in pinks and reds, all of the stores are full of cutesy stuffed animals and chocolate and cinnamon flavoured heart shaped things and all of the TV shows I watch are doing special episodes with advertisements embedded within these special episodes all conspiring to remind me that I am single.  It is likely that this blanket romancevertising is not targeted at me. It is meant for people that find themselves in the fortunate position of being the target of Cupid’s arrow and VISA’s thrall, but at the same time it all serves to let me know that this is something that I do not have access to at the moment.  Now, I am normally a sucker for all things sappy and manipulative, but when it comes to Valentine’s Day, I don’t even care.  I’m not desperate for a date this year.   I’d be happy to have somebody special to spend it with, but absent that, I don’t need the validation of having celebrated the day just so that I can say that I did.  I was cured of this desire years ago. 

I met a guy at a friend’s house.  He was her boyfriend’s cousin, I only talked to him for a minute or two and when he asked my friend for my number I told her to give it to him.  He was a bit younger than I was, but I wasn’t seeing anybody and he was cute.   It was very near Valentine’s Day, so when he asked me out I suggested we make our first date that night.  I was extremely pleased with myself for being so proactive.   I wasn’t going to sit around sulking this year!  He asked me what I wanted to do, and I told him to surprise me. 

All day I hummed and thrived, grooving on the fact that I was in.  I was accessing this sappy manipulative celebration of showy excess and proving to the world that I was NOT a love pariah!  When the evening arrived, I met him outside of my building.  He had brought me a rose and got out of the car to open my door for me.  Okay, it was a gas station rose, but I found the gesture endearing.   He got back into the car and began to drive.

“Where are we going?”  I asked sweetly.

“I made us a reservation at a hotel.”  He answered, smiling. 

I laughed.  “No.  Really.  Where are we going?”

He pointed toward the backseat.  “Really.   I bought champagne and lotion.  It’ll be nice.  We can chill, have a drink.  I’ll rub ya down.”  (If you can imagine him saying “rub ya down” in a Jamaican accent it can only increase your appreciation of that sentiment.)

On the floor of the backseat there was indeed lotion and a bottle of inexpensive sparkling wine.  Keep in mind, this was our first date. 

“We are not going to a hotel,”  I told him.  “Think of something else.”

We ended up seeing a terrible horror film and then going for a very uncomfortable drink after, uncomfortable because he spent the entire time begging me to come upstairs to my apartment while I made polite excuse after polite excuse about my roommate being asleep, it being a mess, anything I could think of to keep the mood light.  I probably should have just told him to fuck off, and I have often wondered why I didn’t.  He became surlier with every refusal and by the time we left the bar an hour later he was just angry. 

He got in his car and I took off running against the wind, across the street toward my apartment.  I had just made the sidewalk when I heard him calling me back over.  Reluctantly, I made my way back. 

Sitting in his car with the door cracked open, he said “Here.  You forgot your flower.”  He shoved the rose up at me, and slammed the door shut. 

Forcing romance is a sucker’s game.  I can be miserable about being single all year round, but at Valentine’s Day I celebrate it.  Instead of reminding me that I am alone, I am reminded that being alone is better than being with an asshole.  And I don’t even have to share my heart shaped candy.