That day again...but it turned out okay

Dear everyone,

I had every intention of writing an entry today about the lessons I’m learning, an entry full of reflection and hope.  Then I looked at the date.  February 13.  One day until doomsday:  once again, with its relentless annual regularity, it’s Valentine’s Day. 

First, I have to say that I can’t exactly hate the day anymore because my amazing nephew was born two years ago on February 14^th.  There’s a part of me that can forget the other holiday on that date and celebrate the miracle of little Zane.  There’s also a part of me that wants to say that I realize my hatred of Valentine’s is (in part) very juvenile, that the holiday is made of plastic, that it’s an invention of Hallmark for selling greeting cards, that it means nothing to anyone with significant intelligence or the ability to reflect on the meaning of life.  The part of me that is most hopeful, the part of me committed to relationship and interconnectedness, wants to say that a day to celebrate love is one of the most important days of the year, that we should take the spirit of that celebration into our daily lives every day. 

In my opinion that’s a crock. 

The truth is that I think Valentine’s Day, as much as it’s supposed to be a sort of lighthearted “celebration” of relationships, a day when little children bring cartoon cards to school for everyone in their class, a time to eat cherry-flavored sweets and chocolate from heart-shaped boxes, is never really all that lighthearted for a lot of people. 

I ran into a friend the other day in the street.  As she gazed wistfully into a window full of garish red hearts, teddy bears, and chocolate kisses she said, “Thank God in Italy Valentine’s Day is a celebration for children.  I don’t think I could take a day of seeing grown people kissing in the street.”  This from a 38-year-old professional woman.  Another friend and I went out for coffee two weeks ago and out of the blue she looked at her watch and said, “Oh God, it’s February and I’m still single.  I’m going to hide in my house on the 14^th and pretend it’s another day.”  This from a 50-year-old professional woman.  And here I am a 40ish tenured college professor and I have to admit that I’m feeling the same way, hoping that the emphasis on children here in Italy will be a relief from what has become, in my opinion, a day to emphasize the solitude of people who aren’t able to celebrate the holiday with someone special.

Seriously, how many single people or gay and lesbian couples have sat in their offices or walked down the street on Valentine’s Day and watched while straight couples bent on outdoing each other hold hands, send “surprise” bouquets of flowers to work (often especially obnoxious and unimaginative displays of red roses wrapped in crinkly green foil and paper), “pop the question” in public settings, or sit staring google-eyed in restaurants over steak and red wine?  How many of us have wondered, “why not me?”  or “when will it be okay for us to hold hands and look lovingly at each other in public?”  How many of us have created our own little parties or taken ourselves to the spa or fixed a romantic dinner alone at home (is it just me or am I sounding a little pathetic?) just to somehow “make-up” for not being a part of this stupid, stupid day.  And why do we care when cognitively we know it’s a stupid, stupid day?  I don’t know, but here’s the truth:

This is one time of year I’m a bitter old woman and I don’t apologize for it.

Maybe my bitterness is borne of the fact that I’m partially convinced that somehow, it was written in the stars that I would never be able to celebrate the day.  Maybe it’s a lesson I learned watching the flower trucks pull up to every apartment but ours one snowy Valentine’s day when I was a little girl.  I remember sitting looking out the window with my mother as she got sadder and sadder.  Looking back, I realize that she was recently divorced and probably tired from staying positive for us every single day, that there was no way to go out and do something to distract ourselves with all that snow, and that she probably doesn’t remember the day at all.  But I remember it because we all remember the first time we see our parents with tears in their eyes.  Damn Valentine’s day.

Maybe my bitterness is borne of the fact that the only time I’ve received anything (aside from cartoon cards at school and candy from my mother) on Valentine’s day was when I was 16 years old.  I received a little brown teddy bear with pearly black eyes that I named Spot.  I still have that bear and fond memories of the friend who gave him to me.  The problem is that I received Spot on the way home from the barn, where as always I had spent the afternoon working with horses, just after my favorite horse had colicked and died.  Even worse, I was in a hurry to get home after receiving an emergency call from my mother:  my brother had fallen down the stairs at school and was in intensive care.  He’d fractured his skull and no one was sure how much damage he’d done.  I took the bear and ran off yelling behind me, “I gotta go, my brother is dead and my horse fell down the steps at school.”  At least my friend was smart enough to figure it out…and my brother, the father of my darling nephew, is just fine, thanks.

Maybe my bitterness comes from the fact that I really am embarrassed by how strongly I feel every year, how it emphasizes how much I haven’t recovered from my wounds, how sometimes I’m afraid it shows that there’s really something emotionally wrong with me.  I want to make it into a big joke, but I feel like some sort of real-life Bridget Jones at 40, but instead of the ending we hope for in the books and movies, what was supposed to be “happily after” turned into ashes.  I feel like a child, as if I believe in singing mice and would take off in an enchanted carriage, careening full-speed even while I know the damn thing is really a pumpkin that will inevitably smash long before I get to the ball. When I’m normal and it’s not Valentine’s day, I wonder what all the fuss was about, I gain perspective and I am grateful that I don’t have real problems like finding clean water to drink or wondering how I will feed my children.  But when it’s today, I know there’s something deep and sad that resonates in many of us, something that – despite lives of privilege with good work and deep friendship - taps into that childhood fear that maybe, just maybe, no one loves us at all.  Because somehow we don’t deserve it and somehow we never will.  As if a dinner or a ridiculous card or candy or flowers could prove that we do.  But there it is.  And here comes.

To feel better (and to cheer up the other three single women I live with here), I just went out and ordered a cake topped by a cute little blonde pudgy Cupid stabbed to death with his own arrow.  We’ll spend the evening eating it and drinking prosecco, not so bad.  I’m sure I will work, even without Joe’s Apartment, my traditional Valentine’s Day standby (My fellow Americans!  Get out there and download it – the best singing and dancing cockroach movie ever filmed!).  

But meanwhile, it’s okay to reserve one day a year to feel sorry for myself, isn’t it?  

My commitment to being naked on the page demands that I admit it.  And if you’re feeling sad or bitter, you can admit it, too…just remember that every other day of the year, you can feel loved and lovable and able to provide yourself with everything you need.  Because you are, and you can.  And so can I. 

So, happy birthday Zane and hang in there everyone, I have one last word of advice:  The best half-price candy is available before you start work on Wednesday.  Go for it.