Tomorrow is Valentines Day. As much as I'd like to pretend that I'll spend it cackling at the concept with friends; the concept of being one-of-two smitten summery lovers, collapsing into Parisian bliss... the reality is that I'll no doubt wind up wrapped in a blanket at home, scoffing down Light & Creamy mango ice cream, whilst glued to Sex And The City trying not to shed tears, and wondering where in my life it all went horribly wrong.
I have never had a Valentine. I have never been asked to be someone's Valentine. I have never been given a one-dollar chocolate from a secret admirer on Valentines Day courtesy of my high school.
My Valentines day experience generally consists of this: Fantasising about James Franco or Eddie Redmayne appearing magically at my front door, suddenly so painfully sure of their sexuality... that is, being dramatically converted to homosexuality - and being all too willing to wisp me off into the night, where they will dance with me and serenade me until midnight, when Valentines Day falls away into the 15th. Then, when the night is dead and gone, Eddie, with his London charm and curiously muscled bod (of course) will carry me to my front porch as though I were a genderswapped Cinderella, the night dead and buried. He will bid me adieu in his orgasm-inducing accent - but the stupidly handsome international-celebrity-actor-of-my-choosing will seek me out forevermore, simply smitten, our incredibly vapid and otherwise entirely artificial romance cascading into years of blind love and possibly even marriage.
These are the giggly daydreams I ponder over Valentines Day - but if you ever asked me how I really felt, I'd never, ever confess.
When one falls into the category of Perpetually Single - as I quite am - and have been a merry singleton for the entirety of ones life, one tends to develop a sort of protective shield - an anti-romance force field, if you will - that radiates destructively outwards, repelling all romantic gestures and cliche shows of affection on and around Valentines Day. Often doing so with great and squawking velocity. One rejects all clear-cut notions of Valentines Day romancing, and talks whimsically of their singlehood and how so! very! happy! they are to not feel tied down - and, ultimately, how little they give a flying fuck about Valentines. You'll pretend it's just an excuse for consumers to consume on behalf of their lovers, and you'll say it's just another day, and why the Hell shouldn't we love our partners with such passion every other day of the week?
This, however, is an age-old and mystifying lie. The lie of not caring for Valentines.
It starts in high school. Picture a boy of fourteen years old - not particularly attractive. Actually quite sad-looking. Acne-strewn, pubescent, still thinks excessive hair gel is acceptable resulting in a massive forehead punctuated by a kind of sticky verandah stretching overhead. Not yet up to dating, but not entirely unaware of the concept. It's Valentines Day yet again, and the kid has no clue what the fuck that shit means. A stall is promptly set up in the middle of the school courtyard, being captained by two senior students. The function of the stall is that if anyone wishes to send a 'love letter' (that is, a small piece of candy punctuated by a cute little declaration of affection) to a secret somebody, they need only sign their name, pay a dollar (to a charity of the schools' choosing) - and wait until after lunchtime, where the letters will be sent out to The Chosen Ones in their various classes.
The boy thinks, oh. Oh my. What if... what if someone sends one to me? What if someone is kind enough to send a stick of gum my way? What if someone likes me? What if someone actually likes me? ('Likes me' being the adolescent term for 'expresses some form of romantic affection towards me'.)
Alas. The candy-dispensers come around to the boys' classroom, giving 'love letters' to every person in the room - except Hair Gel Verandah Kid. The popular kids, of course, are practically showered in gifts. But the dorks, the 'losers', the 'uncool', the hair gel kids and weird anime girls with their heads in a book - they go without. The boy sighs to himself. Welp! It's not my time this year. But I don't care. I just don't care. Who the hell would care about Valentines Day? Who gives a shit?
The boy hi-fives his loveless peers and expresses a vocal lack of concern. He will carry about his life - he will drink illegally, experiment with drugs and engage in a variety of pointless one night stands. His skin will clear up (somewhat), he'll abandon Excessive Hair Gel Verandah; and all the times he never received his minty fresh stick of love on Valentines Day will be remarked upon as not ever affecting him. Dude, why would I care? It's just another day.
But that lack of giving a shit is only a cover - a cloak to prevent the world from seeing just how torn apart he really was. Just how loveless and besmirched he really felt. He will always remember how it felt to not receive a love letter on Valentines Day. And it will sting.
And that is how one becomes chronically obsessed with hating Valentines Day. Totes not about me, by the way. TOTES.
Try as you might to pretend you don't give a damn, but tomorrow I know where you'll be, oh single lady of leisure. I know what you'll be up to. I know how you'll be feeling. I'm onto you.
When you're sitting down on February the 14th, done posting your obligatory status update about how you've run out of fucks to give for Valentines Day, I know what you'll do. The lights will dim. The tissues will come out, and the KFC bucket chicken will appear before you like a bucket of slow and steady death ready to euthanise you. You'll turn on your television - and chuck on The Notebook.
Because no matter how hard we try, every Single Lady remembers the pain of not getting anything on Valentines Day.
So if you're taken and expressing romantic affection for your partner, whether it's a Public Display or a Facebook Status Lined With Love Hearts, and someone comments expressing their desire to throw up onto their laptops, just remember:
They're the fourteen-year-old pubescent boys with acne and excessive hair gel. They're the weird girl with her nose in a book and the anime addiction. They're the kids high-fiving each other for not receiving any one-dollar love letters or sticks of gum. Sure, they might be older now - 20 and at university, even - but take pity.
It's just a sad lie. It's nothing more than a lie. It's the lie of not caring for Valentines Day.
No comments:
Post a Comment