By Dani Katz
Warning: Despite all appearances to the contrary, the following article contains no dating romance advice whatsoever, rather endeavors to inspire readers to make the most of their current circumstances as they are: lover, lovers, or empty celibate space. This concludes our no dating romance advice whatsoever disclaimer.
As a rebel Aquarian who refuses to surrender either my mood or self-esteem to Hallmark holidays, or any other culturally-imposed mandates that seek to inspire me to buy useless crap as an incongruous symbol of worship or devotion, being single on Valentine’s Day isn’t much different than being single on any other day, when it comes to how I feel about my relationship status, or myself. Pair-bonding is a choice, not a requirement; and, if the Universe wanted me coupled, than she’d send a sweet, funny, brilliant fire sign in to sweep me off my Converse-clad feet. Clearly, there are other factors at play, and now’s not the time for me to be mating. Ain’t no thing. There’s no point in getting all bunged up over what isn’t (Prince Charming), when I’m surrounded by so much awesomeness that is (friends, beauty, nature, art, chocolate, synchronicity).
Sure, I used to get mopey and depressed come February 14, when Jenny Jacobs got more Hello Kitty Valentines than I did, or when I sat around all day waiting for flowers that never came. But, then I got sick of allowing a batch of silly expectations projected onto a made-up holiday to shit all over my day, and decided to make it work for me.
These days, my Valentine’s Day strategy is simple: love myself and everyone else as much as humanly possible. One year, I spent no less than an hour at my neighborhood flower shop pairing the perfect daisy with just the right contrasting ribbon, and showed up on my girlfriend’s doorstep with fresh juice, and well-accessorized flower in hand. She’d broken up with her boyfriend only days before, and was so happy, she cried.
Last year’s Valentine’s adventure trumped them all. I left the house armed with a stack of blank greeting cards I’d designed myself, a couple fat, happy Sharpies, and my best friend. At dance class, we furiously scribbled impromptu Un-Valentines to random strangers who inspired us, be it by way of bold fashion choices, exciting scars or mediocre turn-out, and then sent them soaring across the room – paper airplane style – into the Lycra-clad laps of our otherwise unsuspecting sweethearts. From dance class, we stopped into our favorite juice bar, where we dazzled the employees, as well as a handful of customers, with yet another batch of unsolicited adoration, paying hastily scribbled homage to creative juicing combos, inspired hair-don’t’s, and fabulous freckle formations. A trip downtown to the Barney’s warehouse sale allowed for even more un-Valentine’s fun, as between the cashier’s grateful tears and the security guard’s belly laugh, I was sharing in infinitely more love than I ever had in a single lover’s embrace.
So, this is all to say: I love Valentine’s Day because I love myself, and any excuse I have to share that energy is a reason to celebrate.