A day that will live in infamy... Yes, I am mixing up my Pearl Harbor with my stormin' Normandy, but that aside, yes, today marks the second year since the end of my last official relationship. Two years of deliciously drippy cynicism, which reminds me of something I've often speculated on Valentine's Night: how many people across the world are, at this very moment, having sex? Additionally, how many people across the world are having sex simply because it is socially mandated that February 14th be a day of sex?
I mean, let's face it, Valentine's Day is specifically designed for men to disguise their carnal lustings, mask their pelvic thrustings, and put on a bit of a show for their significant others in the hope that such show will lead to aforementioned lustings and thrustings. Suddenly, those hearts and roses seem a little... icky, no?
Nonetheless, I have just returned from a lovely (non-sexual) evening in with myself. The show was extraordinary. I made a special dinner for myself, equipped with such exotic dainties as blueberry-coated goat cheese, slipped on my slippers and my chair-back massager, and tuned in to Pan's Labyrinth, which was, admittedly, still as sad and disturbing as when I last saw it four years ago. Nonetheless, as sad and pathetic as this scene may seem to the observer, it was actually surprisingly nice. I gave up my worries, my deadlines, and my stresses for a few hours to just enjoy being there. There was no one to impress, nor was there anyone to please. It was just pure relaxation and pure fantasy.
What's making it easier for me is that I've learned an important distinction. Valentine's Day used to be painful for me because I felt it reminded me of the lack of love in my life. What I've learned is that love is not lacking in my life; it's romance. There's a difference. Valentine's Day is the day of romance, the show, the penis masquerade, but it is not the day of love. I don't believe that, for anyone living a full life, there is a single "Day of Love," unless you want to count a wedding day, but that's a whole other post. Just listen to some Rent or Reg Presley, and you'll know what I'm talking about. Happy Valentine's Day, all.
I mean, let's face it, Valentine's Day is specifically designed for men to disguise their carnal lustings, mask their pelvic thrustings, and put on a bit of a show for their significant others in the hope that such show will lead to aforementioned lustings and thrustings. Suddenly, those hearts and roses seem a little... icky, no?
Nonetheless, I have just returned from a lovely (non-sexual) evening in with myself. The show was extraordinary. I made a special dinner for myself, equipped with such exotic dainties as blueberry-coated goat cheese, slipped on my slippers and my chair-back massager, and tuned in to Pan's Labyrinth, which was, admittedly, still as sad and disturbing as when I last saw it four years ago. Nonetheless, as sad and pathetic as this scene may seem to the observer, it was actually surprisingly nice. I gave up my worries, my deadlines, and my stresses for a few hours to just enjoy being there. There was no one to impress, nor was there anyone to please. It was just pure relaxation and pure fantasy.
What's making it easier for me is that I've learned an important distinction. Valentine's Day used to be painful for me because I felt it reminded me of the lack of love in my life. What I've learned is that love is not lacking in my life; it's romance. There's a difference. Valentine's Day is the day of romance, the show, the penis masquerade, but it is not the day of love. I don't believe that, for anyone living a full life, there is a single "Day of Love," unless you want to count a wedding day, but that's a whole other post. Just listen to some Rent or Reg Presley, and you'll know what I'm talking about. Happy Valentine's Day, all.
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