A few years ago, I stood waiting for a bus to take me from the Campus Center stop to town.
It was freezing out and I stood with my friend. We huddled together and would always remember the Valentine’s Day we froze our asses off trying to get to a place where warm liquid would coat our throats with a sweet, thick, satisfying taste.
I don’t know why I remember this day. It was almost eight years ago. When I think how long ago it was, I really do feel old. I hate referencing how old I feel these days because it seems that everyone does it, but truly, I have felt much older lately and my birthday hasn’t just passed me by, either.
Back to my Valentine’s Day memory. There’s nothing more to tell really, except for the fact that I was single. And when I hear someone say that they’re alone and that they’re going to be an old maid, I say nothing. I want to say: I’ve been there. But I feel it’s too harsh to say aloud to the person who clearly feels and fears being alone always. But you see, before my bub, I was very much alone.
Yes, I had the dates here and there–but the moments with those people fizzled before anything really substantial could amount. My Valentine’s Days were puffed up with hope that whatever “love” I had would remain for days or weeks after. Or, there wasn’t a “love” in sight. No flowers, no candy. And instead of moping about it on that particular day, the singledom, the emptiness, it carried itself next to me always.
As much as I wanted to NOT be the girl who yearned to be with someone, as much as I didn’t want to be pathetic about the fact that I had no boyfriend, society makes us feel underpriveleged when we’re not attached, when there is no significant and other.
So my Valentine’s Day is more like Thanksgiving. Sure, the flowers, the card, the sentiment, it’s nice. The ring, even nicer. But what happens after July, what happens when I think back to when I had only myself to be responsible for, I think how simple things could be. And how young I was.