February 23, 2014 Leave a comment
For single people, Valentine’s Day is often a harsh reminder that you are alone. ALONE. Every kiss does not begin with Kay, but more like a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. Valentine’s Day for me, in my short 20 years of celebrating alone, has brought me See’s molasses chips sent from my Aunt Marilyn and cute poems, and “Roses are Red/Violets are blue/This Valentine’s Day/I’m thinking of you,” from none other than my Dad. But how desperately did I want a Valentine? Not really much at all. I was content with not focusing on the dreaded day in February – the 14th. The number fourteen was quickly relegated out of existence, ripped out of every calendar, stricken from all book pages. Instead of spending Valentine’s Day moping around wishing I had a boyfriend, I simply pretended it did not exist. Every year passed and I accrued Valentine’s from friends and family, yet the day came and went without notice, and still held no meaning. I was single, and that would be true the next day and the day after that and the day after that.
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