Tuesday, February 15, 2022

Valerie-Times Day XXXIX

This is the first time I've been single on Valentine's Day since 2013, so I didn't quite know what to do with myself.

Back then, I made a point of being bitter about my status every year, but I've grown up over the past 9 years and, either I've gained some maturity or I've lost the energy to wallow in self-pity. Who knows—maybe those are actually the same thing! In any case, I don't seem to have it in me to muster up much bitterness. In fact, I'm feeling a little upbeat about the whole thing!

This year, as soon as it became clear I would be without a lover on the day of love, I hatched a plan. At first, I intended to go to a Valentine's Day singles mixer (something I did the last year I was single as well), but as my weekend before it filled up with events, I realized what I needed more than anything was just a quiet evening in my own company. I logged out of the dating apps, turned down all two gentlemen who requested to see me that day, and planned a date with myself. To use an entirely hackneyed phrase, I was going to make it a day of self-love.

I would light all the scented candles in the house and take a shower with scented shower steamers. I would order a stuffed-crust pizza and eat cheesecake for dessert. I would cut my hair and epilate my face (because I've been putting those things off for too long; not because they are particularly indulgent treats). I would take a silly selfie with my dog. I would shop online for a gift for myself (a habit I started when I was single back in the previous decade, and continued even when I was partnered, because — let's face it — men are terrible at gifts). And I would do it all in the romantic ambience of my themed living room, which I had decked out in red-and-purple floral decor as soon as I put my Christmas decorations away for the year.
 

Though I was dead-set on having a true Valerie-Times Day—all by myself and blissfully free of men (who always seem to disappoint me on this most high-stakes holiday), somehow one managed to worm his way in. I'll spare you the agonizing details of what ensued, but it ended with him slinking out my front door like a wounded puppy, still clutching the bouquet that he'd thought to bestow upon me.

I could have handled that better.

It's true I had relished in the idea of a very anti-romantic Valentine's Day, but I hadn't planned on crushing anyone's heart quite so brutally. While I still got my much-anticipated evening of solitude, I spent most of it ruminating about what had gone down and how I could have avoided it, so it wasn't quite the celebration of singledom I'd hoped for.

The irony doesn't escape me. I'd spent most of my adult life feeling gypped on Valentine's Day—whether because of lack of a man or lack of effort from a man, but this was the first year ever where I wasn't going to let my happiness be influenced by men. And yet somehow, at the eleventh hour, my Valentine's Day was ruined by a man! 
 
At least I still got my cheesecake.