The longer I’m alone, the more I find myself scrambling to gain my single girl footing as I approach certain dates on the calendar. Trying to decide how I am going to spend Valentine’s Day makes me want to down percocet and pinot, chased with a chilled shot of Pepto and sleep to the next fucking leap year.

I suppose I felt pressure to make the Hallmark holiday special when I was married too, but if we both called uncle and gave the middle finger to the whole shabang, we were off the hook for that particular year and united in our cool ambivalence in the customs of coupledom.

He may have been a martyred saint,  but Valentine ain’t done shit for me lately. I spent last February 14th  with friends and a romantic interest at an ostentatiously obvious DC bar drinking too much wine, and eating large handfuls of overpriced Wasabi peanuts only to spend the latter part of my evening polishing the porcelain rather than in copulated bliss. Again, sorry about that Frankie. I’m sure some day I’ll make it up to you by over-imbibing in some cute bistro in Little Italy somewhere and hugging the toilet with you holding back my hair. But not until you’ve had a decent slice of lasagne and a pseudo blow job in the cab on the way home. Who loves ya baby?!

Whenever February 14th approaches, I can’t help but harken back to my middle school days when they used to deliver red roses with notes attached in third period to whomever was lucky enough to have someone spring the two bucks on a dilapidated flower and lace heart made out of construction paper. No matter how hard I prayed, I never got one. I mean, us chubby girls all made sure we took care of one another and sent anonymous buds to each other so we wouldn’t look like pathetic fools in front of the more pituitarily-blessed pubescents.

Now, being single and 32 on Valentine’s Day presents an uncomfortable but familiar conundrum. Do I reject the day altogether in a Carrie Bradshaw-like fuck-you-fashion (she did have all those Manolos to keep her warm at night though) or do I embrace the bullshit and succumb to the tradition of devil-may-care coupling? Everyone knows that when you spend the big candied heart holiday with someone, it’s a commitment that is difficult to break free from. I always thought that only the shittiest of singles go into Valentine’s Day with a shroud of uncertainty just to have someone to stare at over an overly-priced seafood dinner and heart-shaped subpar chocolaty confection. So the question is, how badly do he and I need to feel the comfort of another’s skin to feel ok with our single selves on the holiest of red-letter days?

I’m lonely too.

So very lonely.

But becoming cupid’s bitch may not be the answer we should be searching for.

“I believe in the goodness
Though broken down and beaten
And I believe in the chances
And when they came, they were taken
Now all that wasted energy
We never really felt that way
Now I’m older I see
There’s no escape in the empty
We belong in a world away from here
Words aren’t spoken, just the quiet
Of red roses
So close your eyes now and go to sleep
Don’t be afraid of the darkness
Anyone can see you’re still full of hope and open spaces
And we belong in a world away from here
Where words aren’t spoken
Just the quiet
Of red roses
Where the world wont come in
And where time don’t begin
And twords aren’t spoken
Just the quiet
Of red roses
Just red roses”

-The BoDeans