Cool. Here it is again. The magazine articles and sickeningly sweet hashtags and photos have started rolling in, lifting the bottom lip up and out into a pout, lifting the brownie to the mouth, keeping the wine glass full. Normally in the States, I’m so jacked up on conversation hearts that I can be pretty numb to the pain of being single on Valentines Day. And every day. All day. Because it is. It’s okay to love being single to celebrate the heck out of it, and to also acknowledge that it can be really, really hard.
For the single gal, Valentine’s Day can bring on a variety of emotions, soul-searching, cocktails, ex-boyfriend stalking on Facebook, and girls nights in or out. There is usually a movie starring Sandra Bullock, buying yourself a bouquet of flowers, browsing online dating, and lots of chocolate, which should be the basis for any solid food pyramid of sorrow.
Sometimes I’m bitter, sometimes I’m sad. I’m never happy about this day. I know its all a conspiracy by Hallmark and See’s Candy to boost their empires. I know that real love is shown all year round, and not just on February 14th.
I know all this in my head, but sometimes in my heart, I can get lonely, and frustrated, waiting and wondering why its taking Brian Wilson or anyone so long to find me and fall in love. And I know I’m not the only girl out there who can feel this way. Check the headlines on all the girly magz or just google “single girls valentines day” and you’ll find multiple articles with tips on how to “survive” this day if you’re single, as if not being in a relationship on Valentine’s Day is akin to a death sentence. Bah.
-me, feb 13 2011
So what do we ladies do/what are we told to do/what do we tell ourselves to “survive?”
We go out to dinner for Galentine’s Day and discuss the merits of online dating, celebrate each other on how awesome our careers are, and make travel plans to exotic locations you could never take small children. We consider workout plans. We try Crossfit and create inspiration boards on Pinterest. We read articles to figure out what we need to improve about ourselves; what about us has just been too much. We stop eating bread. We give up and start letting stray cats into the apartment.
We ponder the application for “The Bachelor.” We trade in wine/carbs/happy hours/sleeping in for Shakeology/reading devotions/caring more about others to build some karma. We ask our friends what we should put as our interests in our eHarmony profile. We reconsider exes and wonder if we made a mistake, if we should have stuck it out, if it “wasn’t so bad, after all. Maybe I should try again.” We remind each other of all the things we can do as single people that women with husbands and kids can’t do. We get dogs. We carry on.
But sometimes I just want to be upset about it. I scroll through Facebook saying things like “how is so-and-so married with kids and living dream life? Not fair!” And then I mentally apologize and acknowledge that everyone is lovely and deserving of happiness. I count back to the exact date of my last date, last crush, last kiss, last time I was told I was beautiful and want to throw something expensive and breakable against a wall.
I get really pissy with God and say things like “WHERE IS HE. I work hard, I love hard, I teach well. I do good things and I want to want what you want for me but SWEET BABY JESUS. What gives, God? Send me a sign.”
There are not enough videos of baby goats on the internet to make me forget how good it feels to hold someone’s hand, to share all your secrets, to have a secret language with just eye contact, to fall asleep in someone’s arms. To feel safe and wanted and loved. And I don’t have that and can’t see it happening in the near or distant future and that sucks.