Valentine’s day is my favourite holiday of the year. I find it to be an enamoring celebration of all things love, which is unfortunately usually limited to romantic relationships. Every year, I pride myself on writing “14 Things I Love About You” Valentine’s for all those I care for in my life and wearing giant heart shaped earrings as a declaration on the day of declarations.
As one of my close friends once described me, I am “Love Actually in a person.”
However, recent reflections of my romantic history have strayed me from my typical Valentine’s day mood. I have reached a point that I had previously deemed unreachable. I couldn’t remember which memories matched up with which previous partners, neither could I match up their quirks or allergies.
Although this is an otherwise completely arbitrary detail – to me, this is monumental.
When did I become the lead of an underfunded hallmark rom-com?
In the Hollywood version of this story, I’d be writing this in my surprisingly expensive loft apartment – which definitely leads the audience to wonder how I can afford it, and yet they don’t focus on it too much because they’re too distracted by my wonderous independence and carefree spirit.
In the Hollywood version of this story, I’m on the fast track to the rest of my future and there’s 10 minutes left in the movie so at this point, the only scene worth waiting for is the one where I run into the “big bad” ex and upstage them with a smile and an awkward, “yeah… yeah, I’m doing good actually.”
But it’s becoming more apparent that this story doesn’t have that kind of ending.
I feel like I’m tangoing with my emotionally exhaustive romantic life.
Quite frankly, not only can I not feel my legs, but my entire torso has gone numb, and I’m dehydrated with a dry mouth… And! I have a cramp!
The kind of marathon tango that would get me a 10 on Dancing with the Stars.
The fast approaching holiday leads me to reflect on my life – and I’ve realized that I am a woman with too many plans who abandons them at a whim for romantic love.
Whether because of societal pressure or simply just a bad habit, for romantic love, I easily maneuver my schedule and convince myself that I can nonchalantly put off an assignment for just one more hour – just as long as I get to stay on a FaceTime call.
For romantic love, just like many of my friends, I spend entire days starry-eyed as I chew up romanticized moments like tapioca pearls at the bottom of my bubble tea.
And yet! The idea of compromising my future, putting off my assignments, procrastinating my writing, missing time for myself for a date, and spending my free moments wondering how my significant other will react to small pockets of my life, are entirely draining to think about.
I am so exhausted of being so involved in a life that isn’t my own that even the prospect of watching Jennifer Aniston demand her on-screen partner to help her do the dishes tires me.
For the first time in my life, I find myself craving the kind of love that cannot be found in someone else. The kind of romantic love that hides in the shape of my curls after washing my hair. The kind of romantic love that buries itself in that particular green sweater of mine that makes me feel like I can take over the world.
I am beginning to find solace once found in another body, in my own bones.
I am beginning to fall in love with the way I look when I’m tired, and the warmth that drips down my soul after I share a laugh with my friends.
On this Valentines day, I will write myself a card as well, and stick it proudly above my mirror so I can laugh at my cheesiness every morning.
Perhaps there will be a comeback, or perhaps a James Bond-esque mission that requires me to come back to my once full time career of romantic love, but today I cannot.
Today, there is no romantic love left that I can stomach.
Today, the only person I want to spend the rest of my life with is myself.
For the first time, tomorrow, I will wake up to the thought of her on my mind.