February 2011


Valentine’s Day has several functions, as I see it.

The bad ones:

  1. Bolstering the economy by setting a Hollywood-level false correlation between how much your mate (and by mate, I mean boyfriend) loves you and the things he buys you on this day
  2. Emasculating men by perpetuating a stereotype of a clueless male who is undeserving of his mate
  3. Emphasizing gender roles in a manner insulting to women, who should be able and willing to show their affection equally (God forbid they make a dinner reservation)
  4. Making single people feel like losers

The good ones:

  1. Celebrating love = AWESOME
  2. A perfect opportunity for romantically confessing crushes

The last one there happened to me when I was 16 years old, but not since.  Maybe it’s part of growing up.  Sometimes I think young love is much more romantic than older love.  I don’t confess my crushes on Valentine’s Day, though, because I have this terrible tendency to do it all year long.  If I like a guy, I’ll send out signals that I’m interested (sometimes in the form of lingering hugs, some as leaning in and laughing at his jokes, and some as blatant, awkward confessions).  If the guy doesn’t reciprocate, I take a step back.  I don’t really define love as something you can have without the other person feeling the same, although that probably pits me against every stereotypical love story ever written/filmed.  Plus, I don’t want to force myself where I don’t float someone’s boat.  It’s no good for anybody.

I’ve been told I tend to do this really quickly.  It depends.  Once it took me years.  Mostly, I like to get it out of my system so I can move on.  I hate suspense.  But I love honesty.  I don’t want to waste my time mooning.  I’d prefer to move on so I can moon over someone who’s mooning back.  Wait, that doesn’t sound right.  But you get my drift.

I don’t feel like a loser today, but man it does suck to be so happy for my coupled friends all at the same time (and be the closest to the door for flower deliveries at work).  But I bought myself some dark chocolate.  And I’m glad I’m not with the wrong guy.  It might not be all rainbows and roses, but it’s not bad.  I have 364 more days out of the year where anything can happen.

I hate Sunday nights.  They’re contemplative, in a brooding sort of way.  They seem darker and quieter than any other night.  The last few hours of the weekend exist in slow motion, like river water through your fingers, calm and smooth and slippery.  The news slows down.  The phone stops ringing.  The apartment is clean, my son sleeps, the cars drive quietly down the street.  Sunday nights make me want to take a long shower, just sit and steam, and let my mind quietly meander over the moments of recent days. 

I believe that if you did a statistical analysis of stupid crap posted on the internet, most of it would be on Sunday nights.  They make me more thoughtful, but in a way that’s slightly removed from reality.  What has been and what will be are never farther apart than during these hours.  I want to tell secrets.  I want to call people out.  I want to ask men to come over and stay awake all night with me.  The last thing I want to do is sleep.

I don’t know why it’s like that.  I don’t think it has to do with going back to work, back to routine tomorrow.  I don’t mind that so much.  Maybe my momentum has simply worn off.  But whatever the reason, I try not to talk to people.  My mind may ramble, but I will never believe what it thinks on its wild roads.  And although I don’t yet want to think of the sunrise before I even pull the covers up in bed, I’m reassured that it will dispel the mist, and send me back to reality.  If I can just last through the evening without doing anything foolish, I will be rewarded with a morning of sense and order, the words on my lips having painlessly melted away.