2/11/12

The Bitter and the Sweet of Valentine's Day

I’ll start by saying that this might be surprising to those who know me, but here goes.  Valentine’s Day is not always my favorite day of the year. 

The reason friends and family may be raising eyebrows right now is that I’m the resident incurable romantic.  My best-loved books, films and poems tell stories of love unrequited, then discovered, then fulfilled.  I tend to sigh a lot, even through a tenth watching of Toby Stephens as the brooding Mr. Rochester, telling Jane Eyre about the thread connected from his heart to hers.  I sometimes accomplish the impossible and bore even my newly-in-love friends by asking them again to tell me how they feel about it.

However, because I’m also somewhat of a pragmatist, on the other side of all that is this: if I had to find one word to sum up my own life and the lives of nearly everyone I’ve known, it would be “bittersweet.”  The dark and the light, yin and yang, blissful happiness combined with the pull of something not yet grasped. 

You may have love, but not enough (choose one or more):   1) money, 2) freedom, 3) health, 4) proximity, 5) ability to express it, or 6) *enter your own particular hurdle here*

As I said, bittersweet.

So, Valentine’s Day.  If you’re vulnerable to the need to fit in, as I was when I was younger -- it can be, quite literally, the most painful day of the year.   I suppose I still think of it as a holiday that tries just a little too hard.

I have a vivid memory of twenty little baskets lined up against the wall in fifth grade.  We walked along those baskets, each emblazoned with a name, and dropped our Valentines in.  Some were full, some weren’t, and everyone knew why.  I’ll let you guess how much wicker was showing in mine.  I can still remember that feeling.

As I got older, and was “without significant other,” February 14th would shine a light on that fact like nothing else.  It always seemed as if there was a world premiere of a long-awaited movie happening at my house, lights criss-crossing in the sky, while inside, I acted out the worst kind of stereotype:  watching Roman Holiday, While You Were Sleeping, When Harry Met Sally, You’ve Got Mail, or the aforementioned Jane Eyre in any of its adaptations, in sweatpants and fleece, making myself a special dinner and finishing off with Häagen-Dazs.  Sometimes, a lot of Häagen-Dazs

Granted, I’m fairly sure I’ve moved past all that, but it’s hard to know.  For the last fifteen years, I’ve had a dear love to spend the day with, so the hypothesis of my maturity hasn’t been tested.  Robert buys me sweet cards, and then goes above and beyond, writing even sweeter things inside them.  I buy him balloons, and make funny cards on the computer.  We go out to dinner a couple of days before or after the 14th, to avoid the crowds and the impossible-to-get reservations.

But I still see the looks in the office when one of us (not me, for precisely this reason) gets flowers delivered on the Day of Hearts.  The recipient beams, but there’s always at least one who stands back and wears a look that lies somewhere between pleasure and pain.  A bittersweet look.

Working with people living with AIDS for five years in San Francisco taught me an important lesson:  say what you feel now rather than later.  So Robert and I hardly let a day go by without saying I love you -- on Valentine’s Day, and every other day of the year.

But of course, because I’m a Libra, here’s where I take a deep breath and even out the scale.  Having said all of the above, I’m currently watching a friend and co-worker experience a first Valentine’s Day of a new love as it blossoms, and I find myself sighing again (this is where the incurable part comes in).

It’s their day.  I want to set my curmudgeonly thoughts aside,  and wish them a lovely one together.

Happy Valentine’s Day, you two.

*♥*♥*




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