You lovely BBR readers have been concerned about me lately, judging from the undertones of responses in my inbox. Probably because I have been disturbingly honest in my recent posts, and life has not been all sunny skies and smooth sailing. And, believe me, it’s nice to know that people read this little forum I have, and take my emotions, fears, and concerns to heart. Factor in the disastrous holiday that is upon us, and people seem to be anticipating the fact that I will drag my miserable self home from work tonight, only to be swinging an hour later from my shower rod. And while I thank you for your concern, I can assure you that this will not be the case. Mostly because my shower rod is a piece of shit.
And because, until I went to Target yesterday, I had forgotten about the entire holiday. Which I’m pretty sure is a first. In years past, I was either trying to find some sort of gift, card, new-outfit-to-wear-out-that-night combo, factoring in (based on an equation in my head) the length of said relationship X desire left to impress said boyfriend, or making a dinner date with my other simultaneously single girlfriends at the tequila bar with fifty-cent tacos and Jorge the adorable bartender.
Neither option either crossed my mind this month, which is a feat as I look at my planner, aptly named the Red Bible, at least ten times a day. When my mom calls, I mark it on my calendar so my response is within 48 hours and the Saint Paul Police are not suddenly investigating my supposed “disappearance.”
To have completely missed the anxiety that is Valentine’s Day made me realize something. That maybe I have not noticed the holiday because I am completely happy with where I am at, for the first time in memory. Sure, this is easy to say today, right? Wait until tomorrow when everyone at work is sharing their whirl-wind evenings, you think. And maybe that’s true, to a point. It’s always hard to hear about other people’s successes in areas of your life where they consider you a failure.
People get nervous when I tell them I’m 28 and not married, or engaged, or even dating anyone serious. Tell them that you are actually having fun with it, and they are downright dumbfounded. It is a form of social cancer, apparently, that some feel is only cured by sympathy, blind date offers, and positive reassurance that he’s out there somewhere, right? I know some feel sad for me, as much as they act unfazed, you can see confusion in their eyes. Others just change the topic, assuming it is a painful discussion that I do not want to have. They all mean well, of course, but I would like to reassure you, without you worrying about how to approach the subject, that, yes, we are fine. And happy. And complete.
I have gotten two Valentine’s today so far, one from my parents and one from my nephew. And these are all I really need. I am excited to come home from work, to an apartment I love, and do whatever the hell it is I want to do. And because, for the first time in years, this day means nothing to me in either the stress of a perfect date or the stress of finding myself single, yet again, it will probably nothing of note. It’s finally just another day.
I like it this way. Maybe I will give up celebrating for good. Even the years I find myself with someone. Because I do not want a dozen roses, a beautifully planned dinner and a card on Valentine’s Day. I want a dozen roses on a random Wednesday in July for no reason other than just because. I want a beautiful dinner after I’ve had a horrible work week in November, when a night out would do us well but I am too mentally exhausted to plan it on my own. I want a card when you are at a loss for words, but you finally found something that says everything you can’t on a rainy day in March.
And until that opportunity presents itself, I am happy with where I am. Please don’t worry about me.