In February, the ever blue dissatisfaction is made more bearable with discounted bottles of pink Moscato and a fixation on companionship even single-fanatics like myself can’t help but fall for.
Modernization has indefinitely secured a landscape for Valentine’s Day to fluoresce as the governing celebration of romance; it’s painted pink by the aesthetics of Italian Renaissance gardens, opulent meals of sushi and Fettuccine Alfredo and teddy bears made significantly larger than their consumers.
Its mystical powers, each wrapped in tulip petals and rose quartz, promise frostbitten Michiganders they’ll be able to sleep until spring’s awakening under velvet sheets if they find the right individual to cozy up to.
The new year has offered the cognizance I’m actually infatuated with being unattached. The realization was quite refreshing after years spent bewildered by my attraction to emotionally unavailable men over the hopeless romantics paying for my McDonald’s after 2 a.m.
While my peers at Central Michigan University latch onto one another like magnets this season, embellishing their Twitter profiles with eulogies to their “baes” and discomforting iMovie videos, I’ve always preferred the finer features of the holiday.
Such treasures include devouring pints of Ben & Jerry’s “Phish Food” ice cream, boogieing to 2010 Drake in college bars and celebrating the divine forces of femininity.
Valentine’s Day for a single gal is a reminder to rave for yourself, your loved ones and your life as vibrantly as possibly.
My life as a 20-something girl shimmers like a vivacious mirage in a New York indie film, made only more magenta and ridiculous during the holiday.
I like to believe it’s similar to SZA’s unapologetic CTRL album, the 2016 trailer to How to Be Single or any Sex and the City episode where Carrie Bradshaw isn’t entirely love-struck by Mr. Big, which is a breathtaking rarity.
Although I doubt neither of those anecdotes featured as many microwave dinners, sloppy hair buns and awkward attempts at humor, they offer a wave I’ve been riding for a while.
My life flows like a bundle of mesh fabrics through a continually famished bank account and days made longer by my tendencies to procrastinate (I’m actually supposed to be writing a political science essay on the foreign policies of Bangladesh right now) with a grace I am always celebrating.
As opposed to marriage and being imprisoned by the dullness of an unattainable American dream, I hope my future is like an abstract masterwork, similar to the neon paintings and installations millennials swoon over at Coachella.
I daydream of covering the world’s war zones and disaster zones, writing articles initiating conversation and a reflection of human nature.
In the evening, I want to sleep on sailboats of generous strangers on the Mediterranean Sea or in a hammock on the Appalachian Trail.
My love is devoted to beautiful friends and dance partners and commitment set toward adventure and the power of words.
Valentine’s Day is my reminder that love is limitless and should be spilled all over the universe, offering bliss to everyone and everything, which is why it is my favorite holiday.
In addition, if Sex and the City has taught me anything, it’s that “the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself.”