Some people call it the most romantic day of the year. For others it’s Singles Awareness Day, when you can eat a very unromantic yet satisfying burrito at Taco Bell. I for one don’t believe in either. Valentine’s Day is a time for me to gorge on heart-shaped Dove chocolates. I look forward to it every February 14. Unfortunately, I bought two bags too many to prove my fortunes wrong.
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| Actual Photo of Christina Aguilera, "The Voice" |
What used to be the best part of Dove chocolates was a happily prophetic message inside each wrapper. I’m always a fan of finding out what’s going to happen to me without asking someone who actually knows me. Now the tide has turned, and I’m no longer simply told to “Remember my first crush.” This is Chinese fortune cookie realness. One morning (yes, that’s right) I opened one to reveal this command: “Watch the sun come up,” and then a second to “Share a sunset.” This had to have cosmic meaning in my life, but I didn’t know what.
I turned to the one person who could succinctly sort this out. My bus friend, we’ll call him Jeff, always has a solution. Since he had taken his car to work, I emailed him my problem, imploring, “Is the universe trying to tell me something?” I waited impatiently for an answer like he was a shaken Magic Eight Ball that hadn’t settled yet. Then the blue triangle finally flipped. “LISTEN,” he wrote, “they are in the wrong order. It should be, ‘share a sunset’ then ‘watch the sun come up.’” Lastly, with his (and now my) juvenile penchant for adding “in bed” to the end of fortunes, I got the message. I was not a very romantic person.
I’ve never watched a sunrise. And romance? Last Valentine’s Day my bestie and I loudly read from “The Vagina Monologues” and baked a giant sugar cookie replica of Christina Aguilera that melted (our goal was to make a drag queen clutching a shank and a baby, so close enough). I never begrudged not having a Valentine because when I did, it was the worst. Such a commitment meant you couldn’t phone it in. You had to wear diaphanous polyester tops to look “soft and feminine” and say “I love hydrangeas” even though you are so Madonna about them.
Since childhood, I have practiced Appropriate Valentine Behavior. Hands to yourself, candy in those hands. In second grade, Timothy Ducey unceremoniously broke my rule of Appropriate Valentine Behavior. He was my first man friend (non-dad category) that I babbled to about my life over lunch. One day at recess, I fell on the basketball court and Timothy used the opportunity to clumsily kiss me. I was not happy.
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| Source of My "Misfortune" |
That Valentine’s Day, I made an effort, thanks to my mom trying to make me less brazen towards non-people. I baked Timothy a sumptuous heart-shaped cookie smothered in fresh frosting. I picked a card that said, “Like You Lots,” with Barbie giving vapid bedroom eyes. If that was not suggestive, I didn’t know what was. What sexually-charged Valentine did Timothy give me in return? A baseball card that said, “You knock it out of the park” or some other lame sports double entendre. I palpitated with liquid hot rage. Here I had poured my feelings out and he replied with a handshake. Going back to being lunch besties was not an option.
Share a sunset? Watch the sun come up? I was still stuck in second grade. Luckily, my "misfortune" had inspired me to school myself on finding romance my way. Which might involve first making a heart-shaped or drag queen cookie. Or both.
By the way, Jeff unfortunately knows all about my Timothy Ducey issue, which just shows how you bring baggage into a new man friendship. Thankfully he gives me sound advice or makes me laugh. I’ll need it. The last two times I went out for Chinese, I got these fortunes: “A chance meeting with a stranger will probably change your life” and “Watch for a stranger to soon become a friend."
