I have a confession. Valentine's day has never been one of my favorite days of the year. In fact--I mostly think it sucks. In the loud, blurpy way a dismal bog sucks as you walk through it and it eats one of your best shoes. Glub.
This is not a new dislike. Back in the days when I was married or seriously involved with someone, I tended to be with guys who didn't "do" romance well. Perfectly lovely in other ways, most of them didn't excel at cards and flowers. That's okay. Frankly, I'm not much of a romantic myself. I'd rather be treated well all year long than be showered with obligatory gifts on one particular day. But still...
These days, it is REALLY not my day. I haven't been in a relationship in over ten years, and at 51, living in a small town, pursuing mostly solitary activities, and (let's face it) belonging to what might seem to some an over-abundance of cats, the odds of my ever finding THE ONE seem to grow slimmer every day.
I'm okay with that, for the most part. Not happy about it--I'm a woman who likes to be part of a couple, and I miss a lot of things about having a guy in my life. I really miss sex, damn it. And it would be nice not to always be the one to take out the garbage. But I've made my peace with my solitary life, and am ever mindful (as I watch some of the people I love struggle with unhappy relationships) of the positives of being alone.
I get to eat what I want, when I want it. Never have to share the remote. Get to have a pile of felines on my bed without someone complaining about the fur. Peace and quiet. No arguments about who was supposed to have taken out the garbage. It's a good life. Not the one I'd hoped for, but a good life, none the less, and I refuse to let the lack of someone to share it with make it any less good.
But I really hate the way Valentine's Day kinda shoves that solitary-ness in my face. (Bite me, Hallmark. No, really. Bite me.)
This year, I have an even better reason not to like this day. A year ago tomorrow, on Valentine's Day 2011, I lost my beloved grandmother. The family called her Germambie, from my youthful inability to say "grandma" and then G.G., when she became a great-grandmother. She was the true love of my life: inspiration, supporter, cheerleader, baker of cookies and giver of hugs. I miss her more than I can say, although I know that, at almost 100 years old, we got a lot more time with her than we might have hoped. It wasn't enough.
Tomorrow, I will be thinking about love, in all its variations. And hoping that all of you have someone special to share your day with--furry or otherwise. If not, I highly recommend chocolate. Even if you have to give it to yourself :-)