With an undefeated record stretching back to ancient Rome'ance -- somewhere around the birth of the greatest decade ever known to mankind, namely the eighties, when the word "dating" went from a semantically ephemeral mirage in my very far horizon to an uncontrollable alive and kicking teenage hormonal bestial creature -- I am proud to announce that on February 14, 2009, I will victoriously be defending my Olympic Gold medalist title as the ultimate single and dateless on Valentine's Day.
This year again, I can confidently confess that I have absolutely not made a lot of activist efforts to help my cause. But honestly, I am perfectly fine championing sustainability in my personal filing status. I'm so used to checking the "single" box that to do otherwise would almost be as industrious as learning Chinese.
I'm just saying! It's become such a natural instinctive reflex to the point that it is now far less difficult to count the number of times I've actually had a significant other to spend V-Day with than the times I pulled a solo performance -- at least I only need one hand to enumerate those exceptional duos. And should you be wondering how many fingers would exactly be displayed ... the answer is two.
Mind you, two beyond memorable ones -- for my then partners du jour that is.
Let's recap: one sublimely yelled at me for setting up a "Little House on the Prairie" like picnic dinner on my living room floor -- a spontaneous chivalrous move, that instantly awakened my Monica Geller OCD syndrome and morphed me into a new and improved version of the "Diary of a Mad Woman." What can I say? I just couldn't live with the thought of having to clean up the expected mess on my carpet and very much interpreted this faux-pas of a courtship endeavor as an inconsiderate lack of sensitivity and total disrespect to my sense of hygiene.
As for the second lucky victim of my affection, I nearly broke into her apartment -- had it not been for her roommate and shall I say his highly developed sense of perfect timing -- to transform her bedroom into my very own personal lovey-dovey reproduction of the Rose Parade. Mea culpa. I might have slightly gone overboard sprinkling her white bed comforter with hundreds of bleeding petals of red roses and myriads of colorful melting M&M's for decorative affect, although it was her favorite candy. Suffice to say, the element of surprise didn't quite work in my favor.
Awww, I'm glad you noticed and I totally agree with you: I am such a hopeless romantic! But I guess that's what happens when you accumulate such colossal amount of mileage in the single lane. You just have plenty of creative time to think out of the box and concoct these uniquely original romantic ideas. Realistically speaking, I think the carpool lane is way overrated anyway and contrary to the general consensus doesn't move that much faster.
Seriously, Valentine's Day is nothing less than an isolating semblance of a celebratory jamboree. Just like birthdays are brutal reality checks that we are getting one year closer to the end, V-Day is a cruel and very much discriminating reminder that we, single people are spectacular undesired rejects of society.
Couples are given a bit too much attention. Hello! They freaking celebrate V-Day every damned day of the year by the mere fact of having a special someone to come home to.
I won't even mention that courtesy of this massive commercial enterprise called capitalism, said February 14 commemoration -- which really falls right on the heels of Christmas -- is no longer a simple 24-hour Hallmark propaganda but months of excruciating marketing harassment and psychological pressure for not only these love-birds but also the loveless like moi.
How about a little recognition for the single ladies? Let's be real, while I don't have to spend my money on my honey, it takes an insurmountable investment of time, energy, hassle and financial funds to entertain a successful relationship with my single self than with someone else. For instance, although I do tend to be more frugal with my wallet vis a vis any and all "me" expenditures, ironically, I uncontrollably go lavishly all out and way above my budgetary means to please my baby -- when I do have one!
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As I said before, dating yours truly is most definitely quite a monumental challenge in my life. I mean for God's sake, attending to my high maintenance alter ego 24/7 is no certainly piece of cake. I have to pick myself up when my ass falls on the ground, give myself a shoulder to cry on when I'm down, pat myself on the back for my extraordinary exploits, surprise myself with unexpected expensive gifts, cook myself gourmet dinners, buy myself flowers, take myself on romantic weekend getaways, compliment myself on how fabulous I think I look, console myself with the stereotypical sugar-coated white lie "no you're not fat, it's just the mirror that's exaggerating your reflection," argue with myself for making me fashionably late, tell myself sweet mots d'amour, and last but not least, perform all the detestable manual labor chores around the house. As coined by Hilary Clinton: "it takes a village to raise a child" and quite possibly the entire planet to raise a single sorry ass.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not proposing to place an embargo against Cupid and boycott Valentine's Day altogether, but merely suggesting we put a whole new spin on the "V" in Valentine. Let them indulge in the overpriced, poorly made tasteless goodies, the pathetic cheap-looking teddy-bears, sappy heart-shaped chocolates, the stinking bouquets of flowers, the nauseating cards loaded with cliché Lifetime Television-like poetic declarations of love, the stupid cheesy dinner-dates and the agonizing inundation extravaganza of all-things Pink. If this plethora of tacky merchandising is supposed to make me feel loved and wanted, I personally would feel more of a hot, in-demand, highly desired commodity with my face on a wanted flyer.
I will say though that the most insufferable part of this ginormous commercialization of stupid Cupid is the infestation of these brainwashing jewelry ad campaigns that absolutely merit a veto. If I have to hear one more time a single line of these fucking indoctrinating contagiously catchy jingles a la "he went to Jared" and "every kiss begins with Kay," someone will definitely be coming home in a body bag.
I'm not being cynical but considering that most of the individuals populating the world live in bachelordom shouldn't the law of the majority prevail here? Let's give credit where credit is due and decree V-day as the "one day of the year" pinnacle of my bachelorette career -- then "V" stands for the VACATION I am taking from my significant self.
So on this glorious fourteenth day in the second month of the year 2009, I will not be hiding under my blankets, sink my head under the pillows, or binge on some delectable comfort food junk and I will absolutely not tune in to the universal Celine Dion chest thumping self pity party. No Ma'am! My heart will definitely go on even if nobody loves me!
And that is why this year again I will proudly claim my gold medal and be strutting away John Travolta style ala Saturday Night Fever, with my head up high -- cause it's all right, it's OK. I'll live to see another day, and we can try to understand the "Valentine's" effect on man....I'm staying alive, staying alive. Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin'alive ...
Alone again, naturally!
Missed the last Singled Out? Read it here.
