Well, here we go again. Another Valentine's Day in Singleton. Meh. Whatever. Doesn't bother me.

I'm indulging myself in a little dating musing. I'm in an okay place with my Mayor of Singleton status so it seems harmless to reflect on how awful those last few years of dating were for me. I have so much other stuff to deal with in my life that my singleness isn't something I think about very often. And even if everything else in my life was on an even keel, lamenting about being single doesn't solve anything. It sucks, but that's life, deal with it. That's what I tell myself, anyway.

But still, every now and then a little self-pity on a dark night isn't the worst thing a person can do. Sometimes it even leads to new insight. I am kind of surprised how long it's been since I had a date, and how much longer it's been since I went on more than three dates with the same guy. The time hasn't flown by - there are days minutes feel like treacherous death marches - but it has gone by and I have endured it and generally I'm okay with it. This is why I'm the Mayor of Singleton. Next stop, Spinsterville with a detour through Crazy Cat Lady Town.

I was recently asked why I don't date. I was a little stymied by the question. I didn't want to explain why, to this casual acquaintance, it's been years since I've even attempted to find a date. Further, I thought it was obvious why I don't date. I wanted to say, "Look at me. Men are not attracted to women who look like me." But instead I just said, "Oh, you know, unemployment has really taken a toll on me, I'm not in a good emotional place for dating."

I'm pretty sure people don't want to hear the truth, that I quit dating because the rampant judgement on appearance was killing me. No one wants to know that every man I met had a list of attributes they wanted in a date and the first 15 were all appearance based. And that the older I got, the more critical and vocal the men got about their reasons for rejecting me. That I was rejected for many reasons. My eyes weren't the right color, my eyes are too big, I'm too tall, my boobs are too big (yes, really, there are men who don't like big boobs), my fingers were deemed "freakishly long," my nose is "bad," my skin too fair, my hips too curvy, my hair was too short, my hair was too long, my hair was the "wrong" color, my hair wasn't straight enough, (I have been asked to change my hair color and/or style by three different boyfriends and by more first dates than I can recall), even the fact that I have ear lobes disgusted two would-be suitors. And the unanimous catchall: "I'm not attracted to you."  Yes, these men are shallow, nitpicking men with questionable priorities.

Or maybe not. Their priority is sex, they know what turns them on, and what turns them off. Why bother wasting any time on a woman who doesn't arouse them? Who cares if she's intelligent, kind, insightful, supportive, loyal, compassionate, creative and has a fantastic sense of humor? If she doesn't get the penis' attention what's the point of spending any time with her? Maybe as a friend, but certainly not as a date or potential romantic partner or spouse. Sheesh, can you imagine spending your life with a woman who has ear lobes?! Shudder. That's just gross.

Do people really want to know all that when they ask why you don't date? Maybe they do. Maybe they want the unvarnished truth about how callous and shallow people can be and how dismissive and cruel people are when it comes to dating. But I kinda doubt people want to know that. I think most people desperately want to believe there's someone for everyone and somehow, someway, love will find a way and everyone gets a happily ever after and the only people who die lonely and unloved are people who deserve it because they're horrible human beings. I'm pretty sure most people want to believe that and they cling to that ideal.

I don't. I have lived the harsh reality of the ugly underbelly of dating. I tried, I got "out there," I didn't let myself get daunted. Determined to find someone, anyone, really, I soldiered on through the mire of dating until finally, after a blind date that ended with a man with Dwarfism humping my knee at a bus stop and then told our mutual friends that I wasn't his cup of tea, that he preferred blondes with blue eyes, instead of saying, "The guy is an arrogant, misogynistic cad who flirts with young bartendresses and humps women's knees at bus stops, and oh yeah, he's a dwarf, and not really in any position to judge anyone on appearance," I said, "No more. This is damaging my self-esteem in ways I can never repair. I'm done."

One battle against anorexia was more than enough in one lifetime for me. When I saw myself slipping into some dangerous and self-destructive behaviors, including anorexia, again, and the other tolls trying to date was taking on my self-esteem and confidence, I got out, I quit trying. The critical judgement and review on my appearance with every man I attempted to date was turning me into a psychological, emotional wreck. After each rejection I consoled myself with, "Who cares what he thinks?" "He's a jerk anyway, you don't want to date him." "As if he's a fine physical specimen...pfft!" "If all he cares about is looks, he's not worth your time." "Don't let him get to you, keep trying, maybe the next guy will be the guy who has your features on his list." I even joined a dating site for handicapped people in hopes of meeting a blind man. After one particularly harsh rejection from a man I dated a few weeks who said he liked me enough to continue dating me if I was willing to only have sex from behind because he didn't find me attractive, I got home and looked in the mirror saw the Elephant Man. Of course I imagined it, I blinked it away, but that's when I knew it was time to stop dating. That's when I knew men, and their very specific physical desires, were killing me.

Yes, I wanted a relationship. No, I didn't want to be alone or lonely. But the man who finds me attractive enough to look at me during sex, the man who accepts me - my pale skin that burns even on cloudy days, my dark auburn errant curls that can be a little unruly, my large green eyes, my "bad" nose, my 5'11" frame that solidly supports natural DD boobs and curvy hips, my freakishly long fingers (and toes), and yes, even my ear lobes - the man willing overlook or even embrace all that, remained elusive. And I wasn't getting any younger.

And that's another issue that made me realize it was time to opt out of the dating pool: I reached the age where men my age who aren't married are looking for much younger women. They're not quite old enough to be the young girls' father, but old enough to seem "mature" to the young girls, especially the young girls who yearn for expensive gifts that older, professionally stable men can provide.

Funny how women are willing to overlook receding hairlines (or worse: guylights), oversize noses, stupid facial hair "statements," brutish manpaws (or oddly dainty mantalons), back hair, all manner of fashion choices gone horribly wrong, manboobs, and sagging, wrinkled, dangling gonads that can't fuel an erection without the aid of a prescription drug, but men won't date a woman if her eye color isn't his preference.

I blame the 3:1 ratio of women to men. Us women know there aren't enough of them for all of us, so we know that even though we're expected to be perfect specimens of female beauty we cannot expect men to be camera ready GQ models. Studies and copious books on this topic say that while men are visual thinkers (translation: penis thinkers), women are more feeling, more emotional in their choices than men. So if we like a man's personality traits we "don't even notice" his physical imperfections and, in fact, find his imperfections attractive. That may be true for some women (like me, for instance), but that's not the full report. The fact that women outnumber men* was made obvious to us from the time we started school, and we know if we want to date and mate we'll have to a) claw our way over the competition (other women), and b) make a few compromises in our physical desires.

Yeah, I know how that sounds. I know I sound bitter, resentful and jaded. But honestly, I am none of those things. Well, okay, maybe I'm a little jaded. Okay a lot jaded. But I didn't want to become any of those things. I like men. I don't want to dismiss the entire gender based on the jerks I've met and tried to date.

And I didn't want to lose any more self-esteem because of some criticism some guy I barely knew dismissively hurled at me. The men, and their opinions of my looks or anything else, were inconsequential to me. So why would I let them chip away at my confidence and self-esteem? Why would I let them push me back down a slippery slope I already overcame years ago?

If it had been just an occasional guy with the occasional "I'm just not attracted to you" every now and then, I would have kept at it, and probably still would be "at it." But the last five years I was "out there," it was almost every guy with very specific criticisms (and occasional insults). So. I quit dating. I realized I had to accept my Singleton spinster fate. I haven't looked back.

Yes. I get lonely. Very lonely. Yes, I'm pretty sure that given a legit opportunity I'd do anything (legal) to spend a few nights with male arms holding me just one more time before I die. And yes, more than that, especially with what I've had to deal with in the rest of my life in the past few years, the emotional support of a partner would make an incredible difference in my life and mental health. And I like to think that I could make a positive difference in the life of a man willing to overlook my flaws and accept me.

But. There isn't someone for everyone. It's statistically impossible. Some of us are going to be alone. Period. I accept that I am one of them.

Ultimately the reasons don't matter. And, from experience, I know that trying to figure out the reasons is the fastest way to lose confidence in yourself and to escalate all the fallout that low self-esteem brings to the party.

And let's face it: No one likes a Debbie Downer. Here's what I finally learned: Smile like you mean it and eventually you will. Yep. Fake it 'til you make it.

Once you realize and accept that you're going to be single, forever, there's a period of depression, followed by anger, followed by anxiety and then more depression. You might even be tempted to get back "out there" and try again. And who knows, maybe that'll be the time you find the right one. Rock on. But. For the rest of us, at some point you have to face reality: You're single, every relationship you've had has ended in tears, and if you can get someone to go on a first date with you, they leave without even lying about calling you, and make it very clear that they are not attracted to you. It's time to stop the emotional abuse you're giving yourself over dating.

And you're making yourself a wreck. Your friends and family are worried about you, you're not yourself. You're an insecure, frightened, depressed, angry shell of the person you used to be before the constant cycle of dating and rejection took a toll on you.

Broken dreams don't mend, but eventually the edges get worn down and aren't as jagged and sharp. And I also know this: No matter how much it hurts to think of a future very different, very much more alone than you imagined for yourself, facing that future doesn't hurt as much as the constant rejection and criticism from potential suitors. And it certainly doesn't hurt as much as being in a relationship with someone who doesn't accept you as you are. Regardless of what the clinical studies du jour say about married people/couples living longer and being happier, if the alternative is living with someone who doesn't accept you as you are, you really are better off alone.

That's not to say that once you accept your singleness that everyday is cotton candy clouds and soft pink unicorns. (Unless you've opted to medicate your way through Singleton.) Certain times of the year bombard you with reminders that you are very much alone. Valentine's Day is one of the worst. There is a growing anti-Valentine's Day movement, but I find that to be bitter and cynical. You don't have to hate it, you just have to have a coping strategy.

I'm a fortunate Singletonian because I've never been a fan of Valentine's Day. The commercial pressure factors are a huge part of my disregard for the "holiday." But the bigger problems I have with it are the competition and the whole, "If you need a date on a calendar to inspire you to do something romantic or special for your special someone, then you might want to reevaluate how special that someone is and if you're really putting forth the emotional depth and effort relationships require" aspect. So. Valentine's Day isn't a huge hurdle for me, especially since I was laid off.

I used to hate Valentine's Day in the office. Huge bouquets of roses, enormous teddy bears, stupid balloons, messengers dressed up like Cupid delivering chocolates and other gifts...the office smelled like a hothouse and the passive aggression between coworkers was unbearable. "That's a cute bouquet. Small and sweet. That's nice." The competition for "Most Gross Display of Commercialization, Affection Category" in the office is sickening. We spend the year going to great lengths to keep the office desexualized, and then blam! February 14 it's all about romance and sex. Maybe it's just me, maybe I'm more bitter than I realize. But. I really do not want to know that my boss also goes by the name Fuzzylumps or Pookeylips, or that a pair of edible undies was delivered to the woman who handles expense reports.

Coping strategy. Devise a plan and stick to it. 

Several years ago I accidentally stumbled upon a little known fact that has changed my life for the better. This is especially helpful for the ladies of Singleton, but guys you can modify it to fit your needs. Gynecologists, even very busy ones, usually have plenty of open appointments on February 14. Apparently there aren't many women who want to saddle up in the stirrups and get it on with a speculum on Valentine's Day. So, for the past eleven years I've had my yearly gynecologist appointment on Valentine's Day. No one else loves my body, but I do, and I try to do everything I can to take care of me. Which means: Annual checkups.

I'm especially pro-pap since Frankie's ovarian cancer. I've never slacked on my appointments, but Frankie is proof positive that it's crucial to get an annual pelvic exam. I'm on a mission to remind women to take care of their uteruses (uteri?). Do it. Woman up and get yourself in the stirrups every year. And what better day to take care of your lady parts than Valentine's Day?

I'm pretty sure my gynecologist is a lesbian, so the Valentine's Day element in my appointments is a little weird, but, hey, my vagina is getting some action on Valentine's Day. And I'm doing something healthy for my uterus, so, you know, win-win. There's something about enduring a pelvic exam that makes me feel very virtuous and self-righteous. I always feel like we should get a sticker, like an "I Voted!" sticker, after an annual checkup. "I Papped!" or "I got in the stirrups and scootched down!" Okay, maybe the world doesn't need to know what just went on in my vagina, but, I always feel "good" about having done it. I was a big girl, I made the appointment, I went, I put on the scratchy paper gown, I got in the stirrups, I scootched down to the point where my butt cheeks were dangling over the edge of the table and I was afraid of falling of the table, I stared at the ceiling and made pleasant small talk with my doctor while she probed me deeper and harder than any man ever has, all willingly and because it's the healthy thing to do. It's what grown up women do. We handle it. We deal with it. We take care of ourselves. Rock on, sister! And that's a good feeling to have, so, why not have it on Valentine's Day? Seems absolutely perfect to me. (I've also heard there aren't many women want their boobs smooshed and radiated on Valentine's Day, either, so February 14 is a good day for a mammogram.)

Okay, so maybe a trip to the gynecologist isn't your idea of a Valentine's Day coping strategy. But you get my point. Go to the dentist. Take an extra difficult spinning class at the gym. Eat organic produce all day. Give money to a water or environmental charity. Go play with animals at a shelter. Do something for yourself that's healthy and makes you feel good and proud of yourself. Love yourself. Plan it in advance, make a big deal of it.

I don't recommend "being your own Valentine," as in taking yourself to dinner or buying yourself a present or sending yourself flowers. I know people, women especially, who do this and ultimately they end up more depressed and feeling more lonely. And. They tend to overindulge in sweets, booze, food or "presents" they can't really afford. Which is why I advocate something like a gynecologist appointment. It's something you need to do anyway, it's not something a romantic partner would do for or with you (at least not usually), so there's no compensation factor. You're not giving yourself a consolation prize for coming in last in the game of love, which is how taking yourself to dinner or having a candlelit romantic bubble bath by yourself or buying yourself diamond earrings can feel. The last thing you want on Valentine's Day (or any day for that matter) is to end up singing, or worse, feeling like Eleanor Rigby.

Way back when I had boyfriends and reasonably healthy relationships, the guys weren't that different from the men I attempted to date most recently. The long-ago boyfriends were willing to compromise their lists because they thought I had enough other traits to compensate for my shortcomings. Yay them. But that's not to say they entirely forgot about their list of desires.
Valentine's gifts I have received:

• A membership at a tanning salon (from the boyfriend who liked Baywatch and very tanned women)
• Perfume that made me asthmatic - and also happened to be the scent his mother and sister wore
• A 2-for-1 coupon for contact lenses (even though I only wear reading glasses) (from the boyfriend who preferred blue eyed women)
• A consultation with a plastic surgeon (from the boyfriend who complained about my nose...nonstop)
• A "role playing game" that included a blonde wig for me and...nothing for him. Or, well, "his" role was ogler of the blonde chick (from the boyfriend who liked blondes and asked me, weekly, to "try" going blonde, "just for fun.") 

And those were the good guys, the men who (at least said they) loved me and tried to make relationships work with me. The problem was, of course, they never fully accepted me, at least not physically, and they went on to date and marry women who were more to their physical liking. 

(And yet people wonder why women develop issues like anorexia, body dysmorphia, anxiety disorders, obsessive-compulsive disorders, social anxiety including agoraphobia, stress-related heart disease and run of the mill insecurity and lack of self esteem and confidence issues at staggeringly higher rates than men.)

Guys, please, I'm begging you, if you're going to give your special woman something for Valentine's Day, make sure it's a gift for her, and not really for you. (This includes most lingerie.)  If your gal has never gone to tanning salon nor expressed any desire to do so, Valentine's Day is not the day to suggest that you find her lily white skin a little too pale. Maybe you have a weakness for blue eyes and your gal has green eyes. Valentine's Day is not the day to spring the idea of colored contact lenses on her. Nor is it the day to suggest to her that, you know what, her nose could use some refinement or her butt does look big in those jeans or you don't like her ear lobes so here ya go baby, go talk to a plastic surgeon. If she's never so much as tried a few lighter colored highlights, she's probably not interested in becoming a blonde, and if she dons the wig for you, and you ogle her more than you usually do, she will ultimately feel like you want her to be a blonde and will question how much you really enjoyed every sexual encounter you had with her before the blonde wig came into the picture.

So. Tread carefully and think about her. What does she like? If you're the attentive partner you think you are, you've noticed her lingering over a particular catalog or website. Buy her something from one of those places. Perfume is nice, but make sure it's something she likes, and never, ever, under any circumstances, give her the same perfume your mother or sister wears. Just don't. If you have to ask why there's really nothing more I can do to help you.

Okay. Now I'm going to take a moment to do a public service to my sisters who do have men in their lives. See? I don't hate love, I don't begrudge other people who have love in their lives!

If you are a guy who has no intention of buying jewelery, skip ahead. 

Jewelry is a typical Valentine's gift. Many women like, and even expect jewelery on Valentine's Day. I'm sorry about that, guys, I don't agree with that either, and please know that some of us women don't expect anything, nor do we buy into the Valentine's Day marketing pressure put on men to buy us something "nice" for Valentine's Day. But if your girl likes, or expects jewelry you probably want to make some sort of jewelry gesture. Word to the wise, though, unless she enjoys reruns of Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman or '70s made for television mini-series, avoid anything you see advertised on television between Christmas and Valentine's Day. Actually, avoid any jewelry you see advertised on television period. If you do decide to go the jewelry route here are a few cautionary words of wisdom.

1) Type. If you've been dating more than a year, and it's Valentine's Day and you have zero intention of asking her to marry you within the next two weeks, do not, I repeat do not give her any type of jewelry. Why? Because if you've been dating more than a year and you show up on Valentine's Day with a box from a jewelry store, in her mind she's already booking the reception site and band. When she opens the box and finds a solitary teddy bear charm for a Pandora bracelet (that she doesn't own), there is no way to recover the evening. She may be polite and say she loves it and loves you, but don't expect the extra special stuff in the bedroom later. This whole thing could have been avoided if you hadn't given her any jewelry. Why? Because giving her jewelery means you went to a jewelry store, before Valentine's Day, where there were undoubtedly dozens of guys looking at engagement rings, and loads of in-store ads featuring engagement rings, but what did you buy her? A teddy bear charm for a Pandora bracelet (that she doesn't own). The mere fact that you went to a jewelry store is a potential emotional volcano for her, she's just waiting to blow and spew the red hot lava of engagement excitement, and then she opens the box and it's...a teddy bear charm for a Pandora bracelet (that she doesn't own). See what I mean? If you gave her a year of NetFlix she wouldn't be in the bathroom crying and thinking she's wasted more than a year of her life dating you. She wouldn't envision you walking into the jewelry store, choosing just the right gift for her...which turned out to be a teddy bear charm. If you still don't get it, there's nothing more I can do to help you.

If you're already engaged or married, my coupled up friends seem to like/expect diamond earrings, diamond bracelets, or pretty much anything from Cartier or Tiffany & Co. There seems to be some contract between married men and women regarding Valentine's Day and jewelery. Since I'm not married I don't know anything about this other than my married friends typically sprout some lavish new piece of jewelry after February 14.

If you've been dating less than six months and you show up with jewelry, any type of jewelry, she'll be surprised and happy. Unless of course you've been dating less than six months, you haven't met each others' family, you're not even sure what type of wine she likes, and you show up with an engagement ring. She'll be surprised, but maybe not in a good way. Brace yourself for some awkward pauses and throat clearing over dessert.

If you want to buy (or have been instructed to buy) jewelry, but you're not sure what to get, earrings are usually a safe bet. Err on the side of tasteful, birthstones are a nice alternative to diamonds, just make sure you know if she likes yellow or white metals. If you're married, look at her wedding ring. What color is it? Take a snapshot of that in your mind and remember it when you're at the jewelry store.

2) Style. If the woman in your life doesn't wear ruffles, lace and/or ethereal, filmy slip dresses, the odds are high that she probably doesn't like, or want, dainty pieces of jewelry that the salesperson describes as "romantic" or "delicate" or "sweet." Stick with clean lined basics or classics.

On the other hand, if she watches a lot of Hallmark Channel movies and her clothing style is often described as "darling" and she collects Victorian dolls, anything delicate with a lot of detail will probably make her very happy. If your great aunt Polly would like it, you've found the right gift.

Beware of anything shaped like a heart. Hearts are a minefield of opinions among women. Presuming your girl is over the age of 12, she has a personal line in the sand regarding hearts. Some of us hate anything shaped like a heart. Anything. Other women, often women who had (or want) a Disney princess or Hello Kitty themed wedding, love heart shaped everything.  So, know your woman and which category she falls into before entering the heart shaped jewelry zone.  If in doubt, stay away from the hearts. And it will be difficult. Jewelry stores and the salespeople who work at them are big on pushing heart shaped everything for Valentine's Day. Be strong, do not succumb to the visual overload of hearts in the store.

And. Just because she loves cats or dogs or horses doesn't mean she wants to adorn herself with cute representations of said animals. The same rules about hearts apply here, too. Know your girlfriend and her style. Animal themed pieces are tricky. For instance, even though I love cats, I generally do not like cat themed jewelry. It's a little too crazy spinster cat lady for me. Plus cat themed jewelry is often super cutesy. I am not a super cutesy kinda girl. However, I do have a few pieces of cat inspired jewelry that I really like. Confusing? Yes. So. Unless you have a high degree of confidence in your woman's style, do not presume that because she loves her Bichon Frise more than life itself that she will want to wear Bichon Frise themed earrings. I'm telling you this because animal themed pieces are another type of jewelry that stores and salespeople just love to pawn off on unsuspecting men who think it makes sense that their woman will love anything that represents her favorite animal.

3) Price. This is a touchy topic. If you haven't been behaving like the greatest boyfriend on the planet, this might not be the time to spend a year's salary on jewelry for your girlfriend. Why? Because if she has a functioning brain she's going to presume that you think this lavish gift erases all your boyfriend infractions. And buddy, lemme tell you, nothing is going to eradicate the memory she has of you groping and making out with a bridesmaid at her sister's wedding. Yes, you were drunk, yes, she was wearing the same dress as your girlfriend and you got confused, no "nothing" happened. But. You're on thin ice, mister, and an expensive piece of jewelry is tantamount to an admission of guilt for that indiscretion and many more that she now suspects may have occurred.

If you are Mr. Wonderful and you want to buy her something extra special nice, and you are on solid ground with her taste and style preferences, go for it. Just don't turn into a jerk and lord it over her for the next 10 years. It's not her fault you spent a year's salary on a piece of jewelry, so don't carry it like a cross. Ditto bragging about it to her friends. Trust me, her friends saw it and know how much it cost. The piece brags for itself. Your chiming in and calling attention to the great gift you got her only serves to make you look like a self-serving, ego driven, affected jerk.

4) Diamonds and Rubies and Pearls, oh my. Conventional wisdom is that every woman loves diamonds, that you can't go wrong with diamonds. Conventional wisdom is wrong, and you can go very, very wrong with diamonds, to the point of looking like an insensitive lout. Socially conscious women do not like diamonds, or even if they do, they won't be caught dead wearing them in public. Women who are not ostentatious also don't care for diamonds. And, some women think they're overhyped, overpriced, overused talismans of success in romance and wealth. If you're with a woman who I just described, you probably already know to steer clear of diamonds. If you're not sure, casually mention you saw an interesting documentary on the De Beers family and wait for her response. If this comment turns into a two hour discussion about monopolies and human rights issues then you have your answer. If, on the other hand, she thinks you meant to say, "Da Bears" because she doesn't know who the De Beers family is, you have a very different answer.

Rubies, sapphires and emeralds are diamond alternatives, but these, too, are mined and have human rights issues attached to them. Ask where the stone was mined. The jeweler may lie, but at least you tried to do due diligence. If human rights issues are not an issue for your woman or you, make sure you know what color she likes. She may hate rubies. Just because it's Valentine's Day now doesn't mean she'll want to wear a heart shaped ruby necklace the rest of the year. She may associate sapphires with her grandmother (which could be a good or bad thing). Think about her wardrobe. What colors does she frequently wear? It's a safe bet that she'd like a stone of that color.

Conventional wisdom also indicates that every woman likes pearls. Also false. Most vegans and many vegetarians will not wear pearls. And many women feel that no woman under the age of 60 should wear pearls. Other women feel that pearls should be inherited, not bought.

I know you expect me to moan about Valentine's Day.

Because I hate this stupid excuse to force romance and affection. It's all a ruse, a marketing ploy, and even when I had boyfriends I refused to be a victim. If you're Catholic you get a free pass (yes, it's technically a Catholic holiday, St. Valentine's Day). If you need Valentine's Day to be romantic, instead of flowers and a box of chocolate you might want to invest in some therapy. Romance...affection...showing it, "proving" it, admitting is, professing it...if you need the marketing hype of Valentine's Day to spur you on or as an "excuse," well, I mean, you know, whatever, I'm not going to judge, but you do realize Cupid doesn't actually exist, right?

Call me cynical, but if I had a significant other who only professed his feelings for me one day a year, I'm pretty sure I would have some serious concerns about the status and future emotional health of that relationship. And if that one day happened to be the heavily hyped and marketed Valentine's Day? Well. Emotion - romance, affection, compassion, passion, love - shown, "proved," no, forced by guilt, appearances and jewelry, card and flower delivery companies isn't exactly the genuine, healthy sort of emotional relationship I want or need.

There. There's my annual Valentine's Day moan. Happy?

Yeah, me either.

I don't hate love.

Really, I don't.

And I don't hate marketing. Really, I don't.

Most marketing is based on triggering an emotional response thus creating a need, a deep emotional need, for a good or service.

So marketing all things romance makes sense. Love is the mother of all emotions, the Big Kahuna. If you're going to market something, go for love. No one can resist it, everyone wants it, needs it, craves it, longs for it, hopes for it, dreams of it and gets high on the feeling of it. Powerful stuff, love. And marketeers know that and use it. Can't blame them. If you're going to evoke emotions, go for the big one. Sex sells, but love sells more and brings in repeat customers.

One really fantastic aspect of being unemployed is that you don't have to endure Valentine's Day in the office. Amen to that, right? Other peoples' romances aren't thrown in your face while you're just trying to do your job.

My Valentine's Day Twilight Zone marathon continues. I feel suitably creeped out and philosophical and definitely not in any way longing for romance or love. Rock on, Rod Serling, my Valentine's Day savior.

But here's the thing.

No, I don't have the big kind of romantic love in my life. And that causes a lot of lonely nights.

But. I do have a lot of love in my life.

And as the Mayor of Singleton I feel it's my duty to provide leadership and guidance through one of the worst days of the year for singles. A moan about it is cathartic, but not helpful. What we, Singletonians, need are survival tactics.

Here's the one that works best for me. It's time tested, mother approved and...it works.

It's not the "buy a nice bottle of champagne, light some candles, take a luxuriously long bubble bath and read a good book, be nice to yourself, love yourself, 'be your own Valentine'" kind of tactic. I mean, you know, that's a good tactic, but it can backfire, badly. It can make you feel even more alone, lonely and pathetic. I know because I've tried that one on more than one Valentine's Day.

Here's another idea.

I've had trouble sleeping since I was a wee tot. This perplexed my mother. She knew I needed a lot more sleep than I was getting but nothing eased or sped my nightly journey to Nod. Songs, stories, counting sheep/kittens/turtles, threats...none of it worked. I couldn't turn off my brain, and mostly, at night, alone, in the dark, sentenced to solitary confinement in my room, I worried. (Yes, I still do this.)

Finally, exasperated, frustrated and tired, one night my wise (and weary) mother said, ""We've read three stories. We sang two songs. Daddy did a stuffed animal re-enactment of Act III of King Lear. That's it, young lady, that is it. Just lie there and think about all the people who love you and all the people you love. Okay? Just think about all the love and happiness you have and don't worry about anything else. All that love is a fortress that will keep out all the scary, mean thoughts. Go. To. Sleep."

It's way better than counting sheep. Mum, Daddy, Gran, Grandad, Nana, Papa, Aunt Daphne...the list included far-flung cousins, friends, neighbors, sometimes even my brother and sister and on particularly difficult nights, every member of our church.

This technique tied in nicely with my parents' ongoing lesson of: "Find contentment within yourself, be happy with what you have, count your blessings. Longing for things only leads to sadness, discontent and an empty life." If I had a penny for every time in my life I've heard, "Find happiness with what you have, not sadness about what you don't," I'd be very happy with all the money I'd have.

And of course it's true. Of course they're right. But. They had good jobs that provided a nice home and a few extras, and, oh yeah, a really solid, good, healthy marriage. So, yes, it was easy for them to go around spouting all zen and hippie-love.

Still.

They're right, you know.

Of course they're right.

Love is not all you need.

Would that it were, of course. Wouldn't that be a pleasant world? But that place doesn't exist for most of us. Most of us do not live in a clothing optional commune where we grow our own food and make vegan soap and pottery to sell at local craft fairs and support the commune.

The notion that love is all you need is ridiculous, foolish and drug-induced fantasizing.

As a review of my nightly list of people who love me and who I love will attest, I have a whole freaking lot of love in my life. But it's not getting me a job, paying my mortgage, or even fulfilling all my emotional needs, and it's especially not fulfilling the biological/hormonal needs. Love is clearly not all I need.

But.

Night after night, when the anxiety, stress, worry and fear are making their nightly rounds in my head and bed, invoking my mother's plan to list off all the people who love me and the people I love as a fortress against the hate and loneliness and fear in life does, you, know, help.

No, you can't roll over and cuddle up to thoughts of people who love you. And most of those people, even though they love you, would probably not want you to roll over and cuddle up to them.

Though. I will openly admit, that after my dad died and there was a house full of relatives, one of my cousins, who I see only at family weddings and funerals, came down to the living room where I was "sleeping" on an air mattress. She couldn't sleep, either. So she sat down next to me on the air mattress and we talked. It was like when we were kids and had to sleep on the floor at our aunt and uncles house. Their den was full of scary stuff and two little girls with overactive and vivid imaginations had a hard time sleeping in there. We surrounded ourselves with the couch cushions and our stuffed animals and hunkered down together. That night, after my dad died, we cried, and eventually we did cuddle up to each other. No, it wasn't some incestuous back-woods lesbian thing. Though we did get a few laughs about it giving new, modern meaning to "sleeping with my cousin."

And at night, when I count her in my list of people who love me, I chuckle at that shared laugh.

Ahhh, love. 'Tis naught more than a shared laugh, n'est-ce pas?


I don't need anyone to prove they love me. I know the people who love me really love me. They don't even need to say it. It's just...obvious. Shared laughs. Shared tears. Shared insights. Shared burdens.

One of the more complex love relationships is the one we have with siblings. For me, it's the most complex. My brother and sister...oh, man, I mean, sigh. It's complicated. We're adults and it bugs the crap out of me that either one of them can reduce me to a 5-year-old in seconds flat. Three adults. Who, by all outward appearances, are mature, reasonable, somewhat sane individuals. But get us together and we're three kids threatening to "tell" on each other. I dunno. I'm not proud of this. But the more I fight it, the more I try to rise above it, the more they push my buttons to invoke the, "I'm telling" response.

But most of the time one of my siblings is capable of doing the very thing I want/need without me even asking or mentioning it.

Today I got the best "Valentine's Day" gift I've ever received.

My brother sent me a whole range of his gently used camera gear. My "good" cameras are film, my digital cameras are either a) crap or b) no longer functioning. My brother's kind of anal, I mean fastidious, and takes impeccable care of his belongings. He could have sold the gear for several thousand dollars. At least. But for some reason, love, perhaps, he instead gave it to me. And yes, I'm telling on him.

It's not about the expense of the camera equipment. It's that he wanted me to have it instead of selling it for a decent amount of cash. The box showed up, completely unexpected, a surprise, for me, on Valentine's Day.

And, that wasn't the only delivery the UPS guy had for me. My parent's neighbors used to do a lot of SCUBA diving, in exotic locations. When they returned from a diving trip they'd invite me over to show me what they found under the sea - exotic shells, coral fragments, sunken treasures from shipwrecks, but mostly photos. Mr. Williams got so he was pretty handy with the underwater camera. They'd pull out a Jacques Cousteau book to correlate their dive to the scientific relevance of the region. That was before Mr. Williams' back and hip started acting up and Mrs. Williams' problems with Lupus prevented them from diving. Lupus, combined with some other health problems, claimed Mrs. Williams a few years ago. Mr. Williams sold their house for a pittance of its value and moved into a retirement condo village. Last Summer I helped him sort through his storage locker, a ton of books and odds and ends their kids didn't want. And hundreds of VHS tapes. I helped him find a place that transfers VHS to DVD. It will come as no surprise that I was one of those nerdy kids who loved Jacques Cousteau documentaries. And of course the Williams' had every Cousteau VHS ever released. Well, yadda yadda yadda my UPS guy brought me a box from Mr. Williams. Every Jacques Cousteau special ever made, transferred to dvd.

Oh. And. A couple books signed by Jacques himself. Oh yes. He did.

It might not be "love" but it's certainly genuine affection. Mr. Williams or his kids could have sold those books for, oh, I dunno, some money. But instead he gave them to me.

And, my mother sent me a care package. Twizzlers and a Snoopy card. I love a Snoopy card. And $20 with a Post-it Note affixed to it saying, "For wine."

I ♥ my mother. Twizzlers, Snoopy and booze. Rock on. Who needs a man with a mother like that?

So.

Do I have a big, romantic Valentine's Day? Not in the usual sense.

But. Do I have lots of love? Yes. I have people who know me, care about me and bother to do nice things for me.


After the UPS guy made his surprise visit I went to the grocery to procure wine, as instructed by my mother.

Wow.

The desperation in the air was palpable. It was late afternoon, normally the first few after-work shoppers would be trickling in. But today, Valentine's Day, the place was thronged with men. Frantic men.

You might be thinking, "Hey, there you go, Trill! What a great time to meet men!"

You would be wrong. Because these men already have someone special. How do I know this? Because they were not flocking to the frozen pizza section.

They were frantically buzzing around the floral/bakery/Valentine's Day candy display section. And the greeting card section. And the "seasonal" aisle. And the booze aisle.

The "good" heart shaped balloons were gone. The ones that remained were already losing helium and buoyancy. Instead of plump mylar hearts with arms jauntily charging in the air, straining on their tethers proclaiming, "I ♥ you THIS much!" there were a few limp, dull mounds of wrinkled plastic, tether strings sagging, mumbling through folds of wrinkled mylar, "♥ yo ch"  But these men, these last minute Valentine's Day shoppers, were desperate enough to grab them, snatching them before someone else could. One inventive guy went for a fully inflated SpongeBob balloon. I later saw him in the "seasonal" aisle buying a bag of candy conversation hearts and a garland of red hearts. I could see his plan. Adorn the room with SpongeBob holding the heart garland and litter the pillow with the most romantic candy hearts. I like that guy. I'd date that guy.

The roses, oh swut, the roses. I mean, if you're buying Valentine's Day flowers at a grocery store it's a given that you're not looking to impress and bedazzle someone with gorgeous flowers. On the other hand, props to some groceries for carrying a half-way decent selection of flowers. Mine grocery store generally stocks some nice looking flowers. The roses are usually "meh" but some of the other flowers are quite lovely. They obviously anticipated the Valentine's Day rush and had loads of rose bouquets displayed in various areas around the floral, bakery, booze and check-out areas. They're not stupid, these grocery floral people. But even with the extra floral supply, the choices were getting thin. The red were almost gone, the pink and white were going fast. That leaves orange, yellow and that odd shade of purple-pink no one ever buys because it looks like Pepto-bismol. And the wilty, half-dead red ones. Desperation does funny things to a man. Desperation will convince him to buy the wilty, half-dead red roses from the grocery store, arguing that some flowers are better than no flowers. That SpongeBob balloon and heart garland are sounding better to you now, aren't they?

The bakery department was a hive of activity. The cupcakes were long gone, even the ones with the frosting smooshed on the plastic container lid. The small heart-shaped cakes were going fast and the full-sized heart decorated sheet cakes were moving quickly. These last minute Valentine's Day guys, though, they're creative. You gotta give 'em that. The ones who couldn't get near the remaining heart shaped cakes were swarming around the brownie and cookie displays. Hey, nothing says I love you like oatmeal raisin cookies.

I was on a mission from my mother. I had $20 wine money. I was going to get a bottle of wine. Dammit. The problem, of course, was that all those last-minute-Valentine's Day shopping men were stacked three-deep in the booze aisles. And yes, yes, there were some special displays of booze for Valentine's Day, but there was no getting near them, either. So I waited my "turn" and grabbed the last bottle of Cabernet I could find that fit my under $20 wine budget. I noticed a lot of guys were opting for vodka or beer.

The card section was, of course, a pathetic vignette of desperation and procrastination. Valentine's Day cards hit the shelves around December 28th. If you wait until February 14th to buy a Valentine's Day card...well...how deep is your love? And, when you can't find that "perfect card" at 4:30 PM on February 14th at your local grocery, are you really surprised? Is it not glaringly obvious to you that you might want to consider putting just a tad more effort and planning into your show of affection to the love of your life?

I know I'm cynical about Valentine's Day, but with guys like this, can you blame me? They're obviously just going through the motion, grabbing whatever they can find at the last minute in the easiest place possible because they know they have to show up with something.

I know. I know. Plenty of men, and women, spend a lot of time, money and effort on Valentine's Day and that can be just as desperate and pathetic and feeble as the last minute grocery store Valentine's Day dash. Lavish isn't better, but at least it shows some amount of dedication and thought. (The last minute SpongeBob guy gets a free pass for his originality.)

But, and this is just my skewed perspective, if the choices are: a) a last-minute impertinent grocery-store card/limp balloon or cookie or b) nothing, I'd prefer b, nothing. I don't want anyone to feel they have to "go through the motions." I don't want a "present" procured only because of marketing guilt. I want something like my brother sending me camera equipment or my parents' neighbor sending me Jacques Cousteau dvds and books or my mother sending me a Snoopy card and Twizzlers. Heartfelt, genuine, relevant gifts.

Today the grocery store bakery, floral and booze aisles were filled with men fueled desperation and hope. Tomorrow the same store's ice cream and Tater Tot aisles will be filled with women fueled by broken dreams. And that, my friends, is the definition of Valentine's Day.

Singletonians, instead of counting sheep, go to bed tonight and count the people who love you and the people you love. I'm pretty sure you'll be surprised at how much love you have in your life and you'll feel a lot less alone.

My friend has a big romantic Valentine's weekend surprise lined up for her unsuspecting(!) husband. She made a list of all the pivotal moments of their relationship. Their lives prior to meeting each other. How they met. Their courtship. Their marriage proposal. Their engagement. (Yep, proposal and engagement are two separate, distinct phases.) Their wedding. Their honeymoon. (Yep, again, two distinct phases.) Their newlywed year and first home. (One phase, apparently.) Their dog. Their first pregnancy. Their first childbirth and her quitting her career. Their first house in the suburbs. Their second pregnancy. Their move to their second home in another suburb. Their vacations. (Yep, plural.) Their "oh-god-his-new-assistant-at-work-is-24-and-smokin'-hot." Probably no coincidence the most recent phase of their relationship coinciding with Valentine's Day resulted in her big weekend surprise.

A movie marathon! She chose a movie she felt best represented each pivotal moment in their relationship. Yes. 16 movies. In one weekend. 13 romantic comedies and 3 dramas.  Each correlating to a pivotal moment in their relationship.

Okay. I'm single. The Mayor of Singleton. I mean, I'm reallllllllllly single. I don't even think about men or dating or kisses or sex or relationships or, and especially, not romance.

So my take on this is probably very skewed and probably very irrelevant.

But.

I felt a deep, deep moral need to warn my friend's husband about what was really going to happen this weekend while the kids were at his parents'. I felt he should know that in his wife's language "romantic surprise" translates to 16 movies representing their life together. Most of them featuring Meg Ryan, Reese Witherspoon or Renée Zellweger and Hugh Grant. In other words, all of them chick flicks, none of them porn.

I'm single. The Mayor of Singleton. I mean, I'm reallllllllllly single. I don't even think about men or dating or kisses or sex or relationships or, and especially, not romance.

So my take on this is probably very skewed and probably very irrelevant.


But.

I'm reasonably certain a married man with two children living in the suburbs who has a very hot  24-year-old assistant at work doesn't consider a "romantic weekend without the kids" as three days watching his wife's imagined versions of their life acted out in chick flicks. I could be very wrong about this because I'm very single and clearly I know nothing about marriage or men.

But.

I'm reasonably certain a married man with two children living in the suburbs who has a very hot 24-year-old assistant at work thinks a "romantic weekend without the kids" includes "sexy" lingerie ("sexy" in this case means low-rent slutty: lacy, leather/vinyl (or both), itchy and crotchless), porn (including the girl-on-girl stuff) and something from the four basic romantic food groups: something fried, something beer, something pizza, something chip.


Okay. I'm single. The Mayor of Singleton. I mean, I'm reallllllllllly single. I don't even think about men or dating or kisses or sex or relationships or, and especially, not romance.


So my take on this is probably very skewed and probably very irrelevant.


But.

I'm reasonably certain that to a married man with two children living in the suburbs who has a very hot, 24-year-old assistant the only thing worse than a 16 relationship movie marathon would be the opening weekend Saturday afternoon 2-for-1 matinée of the Justin Bieber "documentary."


I tried to warn my friend that her big romantic surprise for her husband might not be met as enthusiastically as she anticipated.

"The thing is, [friend], this is what you want for Valentine's Day. This is what you want him to do for you. You want him to prove his love and respect for your relationship via film portrayals. This is your dream romantic weekend. This is a gift for yourself, not really for him. This might not be what he's expecting for your romantic weekend surprise that requires sending the kids to his parents'."

I crossed a line. She was hurt. Defensive. She expected me to enthuse over her creativity and stand in awe, humbled by her romantic genius. But all I could see was her husband, standing there holding a bottle of champagne and some expensive chocolates expecting slutty lingerie and porn and instead being met with raspberry scones, the cozy movie blanket from the den and 16 chick flicks queued up.

And yes, my allegiance should be to my friend, not her husband. But. In my defense, I was thinking of her. I was trying to spare her the disappointment she'd feel after oh, I dunno, three movies into the marathon when her husband either fell asleep or started Blackberrying for work.

But of course she had to play her winning hand. Married always trumps single. Every game, every time.

"You don't know anything about men. You don't know anything about marriage. Did you ever think maybe this is why your relationships all failed and why no one is interested in you and why you're single? And childless. And unemployed. And moving home with your mother. Huh? Did you ever just once stop to think maybe you have it all wrong, that you don't know anything about men or dating or romance and that's why you're a miserable failure?"

Oh yes she did.

She went there.

And yes, in her eyes, in her world, everything hinges on romantic success. When we were single she always had a boyfriend and at least one or two waiting in the wings. Yes, I knew her when she was unmarried, but I've never known her without a boyfriend. Her motto has always been, "a good man is the best and only accessory a girl needs."

Obviously I have not, and do not, ascribe to her motto. I don't have a motto, but, I think one of the best, if not the only accessory a girl needs is an IQ higher than 124.

But.

I'm single. The Mayor of Singleton. I mean, I'm reallllllllllly single. I don't even think about men or dating or kisses or sex or relationships or, and especially, not romance.

So my take on this is probably very skewed and probably very irrelevant.


And probably very wrong.


I haven't seen much of this friend for a while. We've only recently been in semi-regular contact because I've been seeing more of a mutual friend who lives in the same general suburban direction as her. Suffice it to say we won't be socializing much in the future.

I have tough skin. I've heard everything she accused me of, heck, I've thought it myself. Nothing new there. It's impossible to offend me in any way that I haven't already been offended. She has to dig a lot deeper than that if she wants to really upset me.


But her anger at me, well, you know, that's a bit much. And her complete lack of sense of humor is a turn off to me. And her inability to see from a perspective other than hers is sort of wearying. Now I remember why our friendship faded.


I'm willing to look at my "situation" from other perspectives, in fact that's pretty much all I do, especially these days. I'll take any and all advice. I welcome it.

But. Should I take dating/man advice from a woman whose idea of a romantic surprise for her husband is a movie marathon of 16 chick flicks? Seems counter-intuitive to me.

But.

I'm single. The Mayor of Singleton. I mean, I'm reallllllllllly single. I don't even think about men or dating or kisses or sex or relationships or, and especially, not romance.

So my take on this is probably very skewed and probably very irrelevant.
 


Our mutual friend heard about the "incident." She showed up early for our metallurgy class so we could "discuss" the "incident."

"You know, Trill, her delivery was all wrong and she has some really messed up ideas about love and life in general. We've always known that. But maybe there's a grain of truth in her message. Maybe you're not, you know, romantic enough. Maybe the few remaining men out there are looking for someone who's a little girlier, a little more romantic than you appear to be."

"I'm romantic."

"I know you are. But I've known you a long time and I know you. I know you're one of the most romantic, sentimental, even sappy people on the planet. But. You're also capable and usually you give the appearance of emotional stability. You don't look like you need a man. And you like hockey and guitars."

"I give the appearance of being a lesbian."

"I didn't say that. Lots of women who aren't lesbians like hockey and metal. I like hockey and metal. It's just, you know, we're not kids, Trill. There aren't many available men out there. Maybe you can't just be you anymore. Maybe you need to play the game, now, at least to initially attract a man."

"We've been having this same conversation for way too many years. I know what I'm supposed to do. I need to be more what men expect, more cliché girl. I'm supposed to play needy and silly, incapable of changing a lightbulb. I'm supposed to be afraid of spiders and not understand how cars work. I'm supposed to pretend I know absolutely nothing about anything remotely scientific and I should never, ever watch NOVA, or at least not openly admit it. It's only okay to talk about accessible art and music - Impressionism and top 40. Knowledge or interest in anything controversial or 'weird' or loud is taboo. I'm supposed to make men feel manly and needed for manly things and in order to do that I have to seem incapable, silly and scared."

"See? You do know the drill."

 "Do you think [our friend's] husband will be thrilled about the 16 movie marathon of chick flicks?"

"Of course not."

"How would your husband respond?"

"With divorce papers."

"Exactly. So, if you told her what I said to her it would be valid advice. But because I said it, because I'm a spinster, my reaction and concerns for her are not valid, and further, I'm deserving of ridicule and insult?"

"I know. I know. We know she's nuts. But. That's not the point. The point is that there might be a shred of validity to her rant."

"I should be more girly. Ruffles. Lace. Pink. Ditsy. Stupid. Incapable."

"Well, I mean, you know, you're 5'11". The ruffles and lace are probably not the best choices for you. And I think you're physically and mentally incapable of ditz. But. You know, Trill, you get stuck in the Friend Zone a lot. Guys adore you but they don't love you, you know, romantically."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I know."

"Why do you think that is, Trill?"

"Because I'm too much woman for them and I intimidate them and so, heartbroken in their abyss of unrequited love for me they're happy to be just friends, protecting their fragile little hearts from being broken?"

"Yeah. I'm sure that's it. Maybe you should spend the weekend recharging your girly batteries. Maybe you should watch 16 chick flicks."

"Yeah, Meg Ryan and Hugh Grant are exactly what I need. I'll emerge all soft and gooey and girly and at least 20 IQ points lower."

"Point taken, but c'mon, Trill, maybe at least try to play the game? Try to be girly?"

"A more appropriate weekend for me would be a Twilight Zone marathon."



Then we went to our class.

And one of our younger classmates was enthusing about her singles-only Valentine's party. Apparently he has lots of single friends. They're going to have a huge anti-Valentine's Day party and celebrate their singleness.

I remember those days. I used to have lots of single friends, too. We all liked being single. And then they all got married. And now it's a party of one.

Because the only single friends I have are: Lesbians and gay men who can't or don't want to get married; and men who have deep rooted commitment issues and will never get married. I have no single girl friends. Not one. And, heck, even one of my commitment-phobe male friends got married last year.

My friend said to our classmate, "Oh! We used to do that! Didn't we Trill?! You should go to her party for singles, Trill!"

Yes. My friend invited me to our classmate's party.

Our classmate was clearly stymied, feeling awkward, "Um, yeah, divorced people are technically single. Most of my friends are around my age, but sure, stop by if you want."

My friend came to my "defense." "Oh, she's not the one thinking about a divorce, and I'm only thinking about a separation, and things are a lot better. We're not getting divorced. And Trillian's not divorced, she's never been married. (grabbing my hand and pointing to my ring finger) She's as single as single can be!"

Our young classmate, clearly feeling even more awkward, just went with it. When things are already awkward why not just say everything you think, because things are already awkward. "You've never been married? You're not divorced? Gawd. Why?!"

Oh yes. She did. She stood there, almost accusatory, mouth agape, gawking at the spinster. And then another even younger classmate joined in. "Wow. You know, my mom has a friend like you."

Yes. She said "like you." Yes. "Like you." As if I'm an exhibit at an endangered species zoo. Or, more accurately, as if I'm like one of the people on the copies of fliers of wanted criminals at the post office. Dangerous. Do not apprehend.

You're probably thinking I'm overreacting, maybe a bit too sensitive. But then another classmate, who is always talking about her husband, and someone who I've befriended and quite like, said, thinking she was coming to my defense, answered for me. "Not everyone is in a rush to get married. I only got married a few years ago. Some of us have other priorities. Travel, careers, lives apart from hunting for a man."

Ahhhhh. A voice of reason. I knew I liked this woman.

And then our younger classmates chimed back at her, "We have all those things. We can have men, too. It's not either/or."

My "recently" married classmate and I shared a knowing smile. Ah, youth.

Suffice it to say I am a) alienated from several of my classmates, b) not attending the singles-only anti-Valentine's Day party and c) watching a Twilight Zone marathon all weekend. Alone. Again. Always.

But.

At least I'm not trapped in the suburbs watching 16 chick flicks.

"It's (loneliness) actually a greater risk for morbidity or mortality than cigarette smoking is. Being lonely is a bad thing for you."