Well, here we are again. February 14th, a date which will live in infamy for most of us lonely hearts. Valentine’s Day is the one day of the year when those of us who are alone are not allowed to forget that we are utterly alone. For the last couple of weeks, we singles have been ruthlessly and relentlessly bombarded in person and in the media with constant reminders that we are, in fact, fucking losers. As if I needed a reminder. It might as well be cross stitched into a pillow in my living room.
I thought I could avoid this “singles shaming” by not leaving the house today, holing up on my couch and binge watching The Walking Dead, but even a show filled with flesh-eating corpses still contains just enough romance to put a damper on the day. And it really couldn’t have been a more perfect Valentine’s Day. Cloudy skies and cold rain all day long– not once did the sun come out to shine, not even for a moment. Ideal weather for suffering the tortures of the memory of a lost love.
Lucy knows what’s up
You’ve gotta give Lucy credit– at least she’s trying, though her pursuit of Schroeder is fruitless and completely misguided. For god’s sakes, Lucy, leave the man alone– can’t you see he’s immersed in his music, not to mention he’s most likely struggling with his own sexuality? (Does anyone else think Schroeder is gay? I’ve always just assumed so.) But you really do have to give Lucy props for putting her heart out there and taking a chance. Exactly one year ago on this very blog I wrote a Valentine’s Day post in which I mentioned receiving some sage advice from a pretty girl about the importance of putting oneself out there, but at thirty-six years of age, my options are so severely limited that there’s just no point to any of it anymore. My best option for meeting people is the bar and club scene, but despite my penchant for drinking, I don’t belong in bars. These are locales where my misanthropy and agoraphobia can combine to make for an unpleasant cocktail. I’m far more likely to get into a fist fight with some douchebag in a bar or a dance hall than I am to get a girl’s phone number.
Said douchebags: “What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me…”
[SIDE NOTE: in high school, my hair and sideburns looked just like Will Ferrell’s in Night at the Roxbury]
What is love, though? Hell if I know. There have been a handful of times in my life where I thought I knew– I was certain that I knew– but I was ultimately proven wrong in each instance and left holding my head in my hands wondering what I could have done differently. But there’s no use in wondering now. The past is gone, and it’s gone for good– there’s no return to any idyllic garden. Much like Adam and Eve, I’m no longer in paradise, but at least I’m wiser for it, right? RIGHT?!?
It’s quite the disturbing thing to be stuck in a perpetual state of despair and apathy. Both states of mind seem to go hand in hand with one another, and it’s not the good kind of hand holding, either. There’s no “off to see the Wizard” singing and skipping while holding hands bullshit here– this is the kind of death grip hand holding when someone who can’t swim is drowning, grabbing at anything and anyone they can get their mitts on and pulling them under in sheer panic and desperation.
[cue Debbie Downer music: waaahhhhh waaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh]
I’m not really that bitter about the holiday, though. I sincerely hope as many people as possible are finding happiness right now in the arms of a loved one. I really do. As for me, I’m going to polish off the bottle of whiskey I’ve been nursing all day in the dark with Be My Valentine, Charlie Brown running on a loop until I pass out.