I woke up yesterday morning, my head was pounding. I could feel the mascara stuck to my eyelashes from the night before.
I rolled out of bed, hopped in the shower. Pulled a black tank over my head and managed to put on my skinny jeans without feeling like I needed to vomit.
Sunday regrets from Saturday night festivities, we’ve all been there.
Serving brunch was less than ideal, I would much have rather been tucked in my bed wondering what I could make for breakfast that would take the least amount of effort.
But, duty calls.
Uber-pooled it to Dupont with a young guy who seemed to be in the same boat that I was. The glossiness in his eyes paired with the slouching “I’d rather be anywhere but here” position matched mine perfectly. No words exchanged, but the struggle was apparent.
To my surprise, a busy brunch shift was just what I needed. At first paranoia struck…”Do you think they can tell I feel like I got hit by a train?” Hm, probably. Just smile anyways.
Three guacamole stains and roughly 30 checks later, an email popped up on my phone. Domino’s Pizza. Classic.
“Domino’s Pizza loves you. Will you be my Valentine?”
Oh shit, that’s today?
I was aware of Galentine’s Day on the 13th. I even marked an event in the calendar at work for a group of 30 women celebrating the Leslie Knope holiday. I knew the holiday was coming; I wasn’t actively trying to not think about it. Perhaps my deadly hangover was too distracting.
I have never celebrated Valentine’s Day with a significant other. Last year, it was a Friday. I was probably at Stacker’s Pub drinking a cheap vodka soda–R.I.P $4.50 rail drinks, I miss you. The year before that I was in Africa petting lions. And the year before that my first article was published in my college newspaper titled, “How to celebrate Valentine’s Day alone.” I even distinctly remember telling my then hook-up buddy-turned-boyfriend that I was writing it. I was never good at being subtle.
Needless to say, Valentine’s Day has never been more romantic to me than a card in the mail from mom (or an email from Domino’s Pizza).
Ah, maybe this year I’ll get a bouquet of flowers waiting for me at my doorstep. No? Ok, maybe next year.
I can list a million and one reasons why I’m single. I could literally rant all day. I wouldn’t consider my self “undateable” because frankly I think that term is arbitrary. What exactly do people mean with the deem themselves as “undateable?”
I received a handful of “Happy Valentine’s Day” texts, one being from a previous fling back in Boston (odd, but whatever). Thought it would bother me, it didn’t. The rose-packed Instagram posts didn’t make me cringe, and I genuinely enjoyed serving the couple at work who held hands at the table. I don’t hate this holiday, I don’t call it Single Awareness Day. I really don’t see the point because I am literally aware that I am single…every day. And I have the blog posts to remind me of it too…like now.
Last night I got dinner with a friend. A guy friend. I paid, he Venmoed. I bought a Canon Rebel camera off of him. We talked photography, shared Instagram feeds we enjoyed, laughed about exes.
I bought a present for myself. A $300 one. The only alcohol I consumed was not wine, it was a watered down margarita after work that had been made by mistake. I went to a fancy-ish restaurant with guacamole stains on my black work shirt with one of my first DC friends. I don’t really like chocolate, so I didn’t buy any. I was debating on dessert at dinner, but then I remembered my entree cost $25.
I didn’t celebrate being single. I was wearing black, but not in spite of the holiday. I didn’t try to avoid thinking about the holiday, because after all, it’s just a day.
Perhaps someday it will be more than “just a day” but for now, I can deal with receiving an e-Valentine’s Day card from a sub-par pizza chain. That’s enough for me.
And it should be enough for you too.