Unsatisfied with the general devastation of the black plague, man invented Valentine’s Day. A quaint holiday meant to bolster jeweler’s coffers, kill trees, and crush the hearts and souls of humanity. Yeah, I’m a hopeless romantic.
When I was young, I rarely had Valentine’s dates. I was too picky, too shy, and well, just too Rob. The day after, my friends would always console me with platitudes of, “don’t worry, you’ll find love someday.” I’d smile, finish my beer and drive home alone--not before driving a cherub’s arrow into each of their tires though and leaving them a note, “It’s ok, you’ll find a tow someday.”
There’s a special hell reserved for Valentine’s Day. How can you like a holiday that perpetuates an “us and them” mentality? It’s a cruel game of red rover where one side gets landmines and hand grenades, and no matter how loud the other side “red rover, red rover”s, if you’re standing on the pro-Valentine side, you sure as hell don’t want to cross on over.
That’s what Valentine’s Day does to us. And in the early years after divorce it just seems like the chocolate sprinkles on the cruel irony cupcake.
“Yeah, I’ll take, ‘kicks to the groin for $1000, Alex.’”
As a blogger I’d love to offer you tips for getting through the holiday with a smile, but really the best thing I’ve found is to simply plow through it. Yeah, that’s as far as Rob wisdom got me.
Want me to paint a Rob-blog picture? Here try this: Pretend you’re running with the bull in Pamplona and Cupid’s overhead with a sniper-rifle. Onlookers are pelting you with candy hearts as you rush past. Oh, you’ve got a “Be mine” stuck in your—nevermind, you’ll see it later. Keep going, the day’s half over.
“Run Forrest Run!”
You have my deepest sympathies, and yet I feel like the biggest hypocrite, because I have a dark secret. I am spending Valentine’s Day alone, but I am not alone. That’s right, this year I made it across to the pro-side, and a Valentine has my heart.
We met right after I decompressed from Grunge Pixie. I’d hoped that things would work out there, and they didn’t. GP was my dive in the water after divorce, and I floundered. When it was done, I took time to regroup, then opened the chamber door, and there she stood with a towel and pirate hook in hand.
She was a voice on D360, but that’s only where we were introduced. We shook hands.
“Hi, I’m Band-Girl Pirate-Queen.”
“I am Rob, Lord of the Punks.”
“I don’t really like punk.”
“That’s ok, I never played in a band.”
It was silly, it was stupid it was fun, but it was also a challenge. See, no matter how much I wanted to spend an afternoon of Pirate plunder, she lived 2,500 miles away; it would require some serious frequent flier miles.
“Run Forrest, run!”
Distance is hell on a relationship on any level. You can’t hug, touch, or stare into each other’s eyes over a cup of coffee. All you can do is talk and share, and long. That’s when something funny happened.
I believe that God brings people into our lives for reasons. If we’re blessed, we find out what those reasons are, but over 90 percent of the time, those people come and go like harbor ships restocking supplies and regaling tales of the mysterious seas.
So often, we supplant God’s purposes with our own, shaping his blessing for our needs. It’s like choosing candy hearts over a recipe book to plan a meal.
“That’s one cup of Hot Stuff...”
It never works the way we want, and we almost always screw up the good things with our own agenda.
Do you know what 2,500 miles does? It makes you look at things like friendship. To be honest, if the Band Girl Pirate Queen had been closer, I don’t know how much talking we’d have done. I may never have known how alike we are because I’d have been too drawn by her lips, her eyes, her sex. I wouldn’t have had time to know that we share the same goals, the same motivations, and the same love the same movies.
My libido has been sidelined for now, and I’ve discovered a woman who not only likes the same world I do, but she likes to talk about them. She has opinions she’s willing to defend. She likes jazz because the musical complexity building on repetitive rhythms, and not because it’s “good.” I love conversations I don’t have to coax like a cat from under a bed. We talk about films, actors, marketing philosophy, kilts, and everything in between.
I wouldn’t have known these things locked in a torrid embrace. Now I do, and every day I grow to appreciate her more. It’s still too early to say what’s going to happen between us, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Even if we were meant to meet ,shake hands and say, “Hi, my neato friend!” that would be fine. Right now we’re taking time to be friends, and letting things grow from there. For the first time in a long time, I’m comfortable with that. I’m not anxious, or insecure, I’ve found someone who gets me, and somebody I want to get to know. What ever grows from that is a plus, because it’s already good.
So this year, I did send out a Valentine’s card. It was simple and sweet and said “hug me” on the cover, because some day, I’m hoping she will, and if I’m lucky, maybe a little more.
So don’t hate me my friends. I’m still with you, and I still understand the pain you’re going through. I’m just finding that it’s time to move on, at my own pace. Because maybe my friends were right: maybe I will find love some day.
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