The only time I ever had a date on Valentine’s day, I was 17 years old. My boyfriend and I had broken up only a few weeks before and I was fairly devastated. But in true let’s pretend like I don’t really care fashion, I was talked into a first date on Vday with Charles. Charles was a sweetheart. He was a year younger, smoked cigarettes and played in a god awful metal band. He had long brown hair that shone in the stage lights as he head banged along to the music. When BFF Katie suggested a double date with her guy that she slept with sometimes, I said why not? Over slices at Burke Street Pizza, we had awkward mildly forced but not entirely unpleasant conversation. Afterwards we ran into folks at the hippest of high school spots, Borders. Here we saw the recent ex-boyfriend with his date. I spent the rest of the night staring creepily and longingly in their direction. Although Charles was a genuinely awesome dude, things obviously did not work out. And this for 8 years was my only Valentine’s Day experience that involved a member of the opposite sex.
This Valentine’s day, someone is actually planning something for me. And he won’t tell me what it is. I’m trying not to get too excited since my fella isn’t exactly the king of romance, but the idea that he’s actually putting thought into it is pretty awesome.
This year, I won’t dress in black. This year I won’t feel wistful. This year I’m probably going to get laid (if I play my cards right). This year I’m going to spend the evening with someone who loves me. I’m a little bit ridiculously excited.