My Dreary Valentine
Valentine's Day is drawing near again. And again I find myself contemplating my romantic situation, or lack thereof. You see, holidays always make me think. I believe that's what holidays are for; to make us think about other things than the rut of our everyday lives. And stuff our faces with food, of course. But mainly to make us reflect on life, the universe and everything. And so I do; I get introspective around every major holiday. Easter makes me ruminate on religion; on faith, belief, sin, guilt, hope and forgiveness. (I've never had issues with my faith, by the by; with my church, yes, and with certain aspects of other religions, yes, but never with my faith. I'm very happy about my faith.) The 1st (Norwegian labour day) and the 17th (Norwegian constitutional day) of May make me seriously consider freedom, democracy and politics. Christmas fills me with mushy thoughts of family, friendship, light and kindness, and all around goodness. I love these holidays and how they make me think.
Valentine's Day, however, is another matter altogether. This day, for all others apparently a day of the warmest and most heartfelt sentiments, turns me into a venerable Scrooge. All the hearts, the glitter, the pink colour, the useless Me To You bears being handed out east and west, it makes me snarl and sneer in a Gollum-like fashion. The teenage couples exchanging saliva at every corner and the long-stemmed roses make my blood boil in irritation on this particular day, while I don't mind such sights at any other time of year. Even friendly text messages from friends, in the form of chain messages showing me an angel or a kitten or a rose or a dead owl or whatnot, make me want to tear at my hair and relocate myself to some remote part of the nearest forest.
I hate Valentine's Day. Yet I do not hate it on principle, as some do ("All that commercial poppycock to suck our wallets dry!"), or because of propriety, as yet others do ("Necking, and in public! What has our country come to, when young people can't even find a private room to hold each others' hands!"). No, I don't hate Valentine's Day for what it is to those who have someone to share it with. What I loathe and despise, is what it does to the rest of us. Those of us not hell-bent on dragging our hesitant boyfriends to romantic comedies and demand diamond rings, either because we don't have a boyfriend or because we'd never do that to a man (or a combination of both). I hate what Valentine's Day does to those of us who are single.
Can one find a place to eat? No; it's all booked full up with dreamily gazing couples. Can one go out dancing? No, for the only music the DJ will play are slow ballads for slow rocking against one's partner. Can one watch TV? Well, yes, if you've got the Action2000 channel; otherwise, it's all reruns of Titanic and 27 Dresses and Baz Luhrman's Romeo&Juliet and I know not what. I can't even begin to think how the allergic must feel; one can hardly turn around without seeing a shrub filled with red and pink growths. Going to a bakery or sweetshop? Be prepared to wait in line for a few hours only to claim the only remaining trophy: yesterday's muffins, rejected by the Valentiners as they are distinctly lacking in pink sprinkles.
And the pep talks; oh God, the pep talks! Your friends will all pat you on the shoulder commiseratingly, telling you to cheer up because maybe next year you'll have someone, too. Someone who buys you jewelry and roses and takes you to candlelit dinners. Never mind that half my friends date absolute dunces with no concept of the finer feelings at all; he may be a jock with half a brain to share with his chums, but hey, he got her a teddy bear wearing a shirt. My dating friends will spend all day crooning about their current tag-along, telling me how there's no end to this man/woman's virtues, while my single friends will look desperately for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. This shoulder apparently belongs to me, because my dating friends can't pull their heads out of the pink Valentine clouds long enough to notice anything else. My parents might even ask me, tentatively, in a horribly unsubtle way, whether I'm at all keen to meet someone nice. I am nearly twenty-two, after all.
I cannot abide Valentine's Day. I absolutely abhor it. I am bitter and cynical, and this works for me! I have plenty of friends, I just don't have that "special someone" with whom everyone seems to be so obsessed. Poor, lonely little Froggy, my friends say, patting my shoulder. Who will buy you a ring for Valentine's Day? Who will take you dancing? And as much as I try to tell them that I have inherited my grandmother's rather lovely gold engagement ring and am more than content with this, or that on Valentine's Day I could probably go salsa dancing with my friend (we're taking lessons), they just won't listen. They either have someone with whom to share this very special day, or they'd kill for some such person to find them before the big day, and so they just can't accept that I don't mind spending the entire orgy of pink alone, on a long walk among the snowy pines.
And this, this is what it all comes down to: I hate their commiseration. I hate that all the rest of the year, it's perfectly acceptable for me to be lonely and cynical and bitter, but that on the 14th of February one must be a couple in order to be happy. I don't care about being alone on Valentine's Day; I care about the whole world making it their bloody business on that day when, through the rest of the year, they don't give two tosses for who is seeing whom or whether I will ever find a nice man to marry. Because even though I didn't even feel lonely in the first place, I now have a nagging suspicion that I'm destined to die alone, and it's based solely on the desperation of the rest of my surroundings. I was fine until this bloody nagging started, and now suddenly I'm being brainwashed into finding a boyfriend as soon as possible, make him buy me a ring, and be sure to sprinkle rose petals on the coverlet every time we're having it off.
I absolutely despise Valentine's Day. I hereby declare my intent to boycott it; come the 14th of February, you will find me settled in an armchair with a strong cup of tea, and the most unromantic books you can find, at my elbow. Thank the higher powers for Sherlock Holmes and Hellsing, say I.
Valentine's Day, however, is another matter altogether. This day, for all others apparently a day of the warmest and most heartfelt sentiments, turns me into a venerable Scrooge. All the hearts, the glitter, the pink colour, the useless Me To You bears being handed out east and west, it makes me snarl and sneer in a Gollum-like fashion. The teenage couples exchanging saliva at every corner and the long-stemmed roses make my blood boil in irritation on this particular day, while I don't mind such sights at any other time of year. Even friendly text messages from friends, in the form of chain messages showing me an angel or a kitten or a rose or a dead owl or whatnot, make me want to tear at my hair and relocate myself to some remote part of the nearest forest.
I hate Valentine's Day. Yet I do not hate it on principle, as some do ("All that commercial poppycock to suck our wallets dry!"), or because of propriety, as yet others do ("Necking, and in public! What has our country come to, when young people can't even find a private room to hold each others' hands!"). No, I don't hate Valentine's Day for what it is to those who have someone to share it with. What I loathe and despise, is what it does to the rest of us. Those of us not hell-bent on dragging our hesitant boyfriends to romantic comedies and demand diamond rings, either because we don't have a boyfriend or because we'd never do that to a man (or a combination of both). I hate what Valentine's Day does to those of us who are single.
Can one find a place to eat? No; it's all booked full up with dreamily gazing couples. Can one go out dancing? No, for the only music the DJ will play are slow ballads for slow rocking against one's partner. Can one watch TV? Well, yes, if you've got the Action2000 channel; otherwise, it's all reruns of Titanic and 27 Dresses and Baz Luhrman's Romeo&Juliet and I know not what. I can't even begin to think how the allergic must feel; one can hardly turn around without seeing a shrub filled with red and pink growths. Going to a bakery or sweetshop? Be prepared to wait in line for a few hours only to claim the only remaining trophy: yesterday's muffins, rejected by the Valentiners as they are distinctly lacking in pink sprinkles.
And the pep talks; oh God, the pep talks! Your friends will all pat you on the shoulder commiseratingly, telling you to cheer up because maybe next year you'll have someone, too. Someone who buys you jewelry and roses and takes you to candlelit dinners. Never mind that half my friends date absolute dunces with no concept of the finer feelings at all; he may be a jock with half a brain to share with his chums, but hey, he got her a teddy bear wearing a shirt. My dating friends will spend all day crooning about their current tag-along, telling me how there's no end to this man/woman's virtues, while my single friends will look desperately for a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. This shoulder apparently belongs to me, because my dating friends can't pull their heads out of the pink Valentine clouds long enough to notice anything else. My parents might even ask me, tentatively, in a horribly unsubtle way, whether I'm at all keen to meet someone nice. I am nearly twenty-two, after all.
I cannot abide Valentine's Day. I absolutely abhor it. I am bitter and cynical, and this works for me! I have plenty of friends, I just don't have that "special someone" with whom everyone seems to be so obsessed. Poor, lonely little Froggy, my friends say, patting my shoulder. Who will buy you a ring for Valentine's Day? Who will take you dancing? And as much as I try to tell them that I have inherited my grandmother's rather lovely gold engagement ring and am more than content with this, or that on Valentine's Day I could probably go salsa dancing with my friend (we're taking lessons), they just won't listen. They either have someone with whom to share this very special day, or they'd kill for some such person to find them before the big day, and so they just can't accept that I don't mind spending the entire orgy of pink alone, on a long walk among the snowy pines.
And this, this is what it all comes down to: I hate their commiseration. I hate that all the rest of the year, it's perfectly acceptable for me to be lonely and cynical and bitter, but that on the 14th of February one must be a couple in order to be happy. I don't care about being alone on Valentine's Day; I care about the whole world making it their bloody business on that day when, through the rest of the year, they don't give two tosses for who is seeing whom or whether I will ever find a nice man to marry. Because even though I didn't even feel lonely in the first place, I now have a nagging suspicion that I'm destined to die alone, and it's based solely on the desperation of the rest of my surroundings. I was fine until this bloody nagging started, and now suddenly I'm being brainwashed into finding a boyfriend as soon as possible, make him buy me a ring, and be sure to sprinkle rose petals on the coverlet every time we're having it off.
I absolutely despise Valentine's Day. I hereby declare my intent to boycott it; come the 14th of February, you will find me settled in an armchair with a strong cup of tea, and the most unromantic books you can find, at my elbow. Thank the higher powers for Sherlock Holmes and Hellsing, say I.