By staff writer Simonne Cullen
February 26, 2007
Valentine’s Day is weeks behind us. The singles have stopped bitterly referring to it as “Single Awareness Day.” The heart-shaped helium balloons at your local drugstore have been replaced with shamrock ones. Most of the cheap chocolate heart candy has been consumed, and the overpriced roses have wilted off all their petals. The streets are no longer filled with pink candy hearts and couples holding hands. Take a big whiff—ah… it’s nice not to inhale anymore bullshit. As far as I’m concerned, Valentine’s Day is for the kids, St. Patrick’s Day is for adults, and St. Moonshine Day should come once a month.
Does anyone else find it funny that single women dress up in large droves and take up a big table in a restaurant on Valentine’s Day? As if the need to congratulate each other on not committing suicide on February 14th is so overwhelming that they have to drop eighty bucks on mango daiquiris and appetizers at TGI Fridays. Concluding with all of them being just tipsy enough to leave their waiter six phone numbers instead of a tip.
You never see single men go out in groups of five or more on Valentine’s Day. They’re too busy at their respective bachelor pads congratulating each other on staying this single thus far and not knocking some one-night stand up—or having to shell out a hundred bucks at Zales for a heart encrusted with fake diamonds and a fake ruby center.
“What would Valentine’s Day be without a little love and a harmless scam? Sweetest Day Ever.”
Lots of my girlfriends received bunches of pretty roses from their boyfriends on Valentine’s Day. It was nauseating to watch them take pictures with their faces next to the roses merely for the benefit of a public display of Facebook affection (PDF), but I choked back the vomit, because they’re my friends and that’s just what real friends do.
My male friend (who has repeatedly asked me to stop using his real name in my articles, and will here on in be referred to as “BoJangles” or “Mr. Sketchy,” depending on what’s more marketable) actually received a single dozen red roses from a girl who immediately started stalking him on MySpace after he met her once on a business trip. I’m not sure what girl has not only the time and loneliness, but the extra $200 laying around to serve no other purpose than to finance a dozen thornless red Ecuadorian roses to the place of business of a man who bought her two vodka cranberries at an airport bar three weeks ago. But I’m pretty sure if I had that much of a disposable income it’d be reflected in my closet, not on some random office desk 600 miles away. Even funnier is that the flowers ended up on his mom’s coffee table where he claimed he had gotten them for her. What would Valentine’s Day be without a little love and a harmless scam? Oh that’s right, it’d be called “Sweetest Day Ever.”
My Valentine’s Day this year was probably the best one ever. Yes, I was single. Yes, I was completely unattractive and smelly picking up sushi for myself after a three hour dance rehearsal. But I’m more of a realist than a romantic for sure. Prince Charming is not going to stop mid-kiss with Cinderella, drop her to the ground, gallop on his trusty steed from Anaheim to Hollywood only to find me eating reasonably priced spicy tuna while watching a new episode of Lost in my stinky leotard and burst into the room with butterflies and glitter coming from out of his armpits to say, “Happy Valentine’s Day. You’re the one.”
Why do so many people hold expectations for V-Day? There’s no point, because no matter what you dream about nothing will ever meet your expectations. In 6th grade all I wanted was for Jake Pruitt to say my name. Yeah, high standards even back then, I know. I was too shy to tell him I liked him, but spent an entire month’s allowance buying him a large Hershey Kiss, which he promptly devoured and then used as sugar-confidence to ask out Jenn Effre, who at 12 years old had C-cup tits. I looked down at my barely-A bee bites and realized this was not exactly the Valentine’s Day ending I envisioned.
Since then, the day has never ever a big deal to me. It was just a day where everyone got candy, girls got roses, and I got heart-shaped bologna in my sandwich from my mom with a reassuring note attached that read, “Just because you’re single doesn’t mean God doesn’t love you.” All I could do was look down at my D’s and think to myself, “Yes, I know my chest has been restored for justice.”
So for all you single ladies out there bitching and moaning about how you didn’t get a box of Russell Stover cheaply made chocolates with a neon purple stuffed animal attached to it, just remember that it’s better to be single than to be with a man who will tell you his penis is broken. Because four inches doesn’t mean your penis is broken—it just means you’re small.
More Like This