Valentine’s Day beckons again: a swirl of deep red and bright pink, tempered with a hint of saffron. I admit I have mixed feelings about this day. The inherent romantic in me is completely in support of Cupid and his ilk; I still hope to find mad, crazy love with a temperamental artist or a broody writer or a suave entrepreneur … (basically some Byronic-looking individual, straight out of a bad romance, with a beautiful body and a past.) We shall traipse across the world, make love in a garret that overlooks the rooftops of Paris, hold hands in a gondola, watch The Music of the Night together at Broadway or share peanuts on the Marina at sunset.
But Valentine’s Day, I don’t know. I’ve celebrated it only once in my life; all I remember of it is my then boyfriend looking hugely embarrassed at the big bunch of red roses I surprised him with (men don’t like flowers, I realise today). I’m somewhat inclined to do a Bridget Jones on this one: “Valentine’s Day is a purely commercial, cynical enterprise, anyway. Matter of supreme indifference to me.”
So when a friend got a mail from a city-based matchmaking site, saying that she should register on it, to avoid becoming a crazy cat lady and spending V-Day alone I was rather cross.
This is a very attractive woman, with plenty of friends, a good career, an active social life and a lot going for her; the insinuation that to be alone on Valentine’s Day is an indication of something not being right, is to put it mildly, insulting, not just to her but to every single person out there.
We aren’t Miss Havisham, burying ourselves in a mouldering mansion, shrouded in yellowing wedding wear and bitterness. Nor are we Heathcliff, destined to spend a lifetime railing against thwarted love, destroying all who were instrumental in its thwarting. And no, I do not believe true love’s kiss will awaken anyone from the sleep of death, unless perhaps your Prince has halitosis.
Yes, love is nice. But unlike what popular culture says, it doesn’t complete us. Nor should it finish us off. We will continue to do what we have to do — eat and sleep and work and travel and dream and hope and simply be. In the search for Mr. Right, we will discover endless Mr. Right-Nows. They will all teach us something new, change the shape of our worlds a little, and slightly crack our hearts. We will cry, block them on Facebook and WhatsApp, inhale large quantities of chocolate and alcohol, and possibly become friends with them once the hurt has faded. Circle of life et al.
So I think I’ll give pink, heart-shaped donuts a miss, this year. And go back home after work, have a nice, long bath and read a good book. Or go watch a play, followed by a nice dinner.
Or party wildly with friends till the wee hours of the morning. Or explore a new place solo or go trekking or go shopping or….or…the options are endless.
PS: Also, and this is a personal thing (I have six); what is wrong with being cat lady?
