It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. Surprisingly enough, I’m not licking my wounds today. Granted, it was hard not to notice V-Day looming on my Marilyn Monroe calendar since February 15th, 2009, but I made it out alive. I actually made it out without crying. Which, for me, is blog-worthy. I mean, it isn’t like I didn’t piss and moan about the up-coming puke-fest for weeks (or months) prior. I even made last-ditch efforts to scrounge up some kind of man on Craigslist. Now, a few weeks and several stomach-heaving interactions with online social outcasts later, I’ve regained my senses.
For me, I feel like Valentine’s Day is like giving every single girl a scarlet letter. If you don’t have tulips, Seroogy’s or diamonds there’s something wrong with you. It even crossed my mind (for a little more than a millisecond) to send flowers to myself. But, then, I daydreamed about how that could turn into a trainwreck I might never recover from. It would be just my luck that, after I sit at work scouring for the 1-800-FLOWERS van all day, they finally arrive and mistakenly the card is signed “from Ashley Berken” instead of “Brett Favre” or even “Mr. Obama.” I just don’t think the few shreds of dignity I have would be left after that shitshow.
But, this year it was a little different. I did end up at a bar at the end of the day (I mean, I’m not completely cured), but instead of taking shots and making out with 40-year-old Indian florists (mostly for the free flowers) I just went home after a couple drinks. I even made it through the last half of Time Traveler’s Wife without tying a noose, or at least reaching for a Kleenex.
Could it be that after 23 years scrambling for men I actually don’t give two church farts about my relationship status? Well, I seem to care one church fart since I’m blogging about it, but I digress…