A Few Thoughts on Valentine’s Day

So here we are, another Valentine’s Day come and gone. And here I am, having spent another Valentine’s Day faintly wishing I had a Valentine. In a lot of ways, it feels like no progress–a fifth year of the same old eating too much chocolate and feeling a bit too sad about the fact that, it seems, everyone else on the planet is spending the day with their special someone.

The thing is, I had a good day. I went to dinner with my lovely roommate, we went out and treated ourselves to a bit of shopping. And it was lovely.

I have been single with more frequency and more success than I have ever been in a relationship. I’m still faintly sad about it sometimes, wishing for a little change in scenery and perhaps if we’re lucky a little bit of love. But it feels incongruous, somehow. I’ve gotten very good at being me, at being a single girl who gets a little bit bitter on Valentine’s Day or after watching a romantic comedy but who otherwise, really, prefers being single. Relationship Amanda is a person I don’t like, a person I hate becoming, a person I despise. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why I keep seeing these Valentine’s Days whizz by and me sitting in the same place–single.

It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, I suppose. I’m content the way I am. Lonely, yes. Hopeful? Sometimes. But I know HOW to be single. I don’t know how to be someone’s girlfriend. The very word sounds strange, foreign to me. I’d like it to apply again, one day, but only if my heart’s really in it. I’m tired of going through the motions there, of pretending I like relationships. I don’t. This is, I expect, because it’s never been the RIGHT relationship. With the right relationship, I hope, it won’t feel so much like work. Not to say it will be EASY, but it will feel worth the effort. Like a thing worth saving.

Until then, I can handle spending a few dollars on chocolates for myself. I can handle feeling a little morose around the holidays and Valentine’s. Because, at the end of the day, it’s better to be happy on my own than miserable with someone else–even if they do buy me chocolates.

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