On more than one occasion, I have been broken up with prior to Valentine’s Day. Whether it was in January or December–thrice on Christmas, though that’s another story–I still wound up doing something different on V’day than planned. Usually, this involved getting drunk with my friends and watching The Matrix, which was better in the long run. But I also have been in relationships on February 14th, so I know what it’s like to be in ~*love*~ for the Hallmark’s favorite day of the year. And even when attached, it is not nearly the romantic holiday I imagined as a naive preteen.
BTW, all of these are based on my actual Valentine’s Days past.
Expectation: You’ll have lots of time to prep and look perfect.
Reality: Work went until 7:30. Your reservation is for 8. You are lucky if you remember deodorant and you’re pretty sure you used lip liner on your eyelids.
Expectation: Your partner will say “wow” upon seeing you.
Reality: Your partner will comment on the creative use of mascara as under eye concealer, but give you an empathetic smile because they know you’re already miserable.
Expectation: Beautiful flowers!
Reality: Wilted daisies from Rite Aid. A bug is crawling among them.
Expectation: You two can enjoy a romantic dinner at a nice restaurant. Finally, somebody to do this with without the awkwardness of a first date!
Reality: You were seated near the bathroom. Everyone looks nicer than you. You’re starting to wonder why you even tried.
Expectation: A refreshing bottle of nice wine to celebrate the occasion. How fancy!
Reality: This tastes exactly like Two Buck Chuck. You wish you’d ordered beer. You’re already getting sleepy.
Expectation: The meal will consist of delicious, complex flavors to whet the appetite, hyuck hyuck.
Reality: You’re now bloated as fuck, yet still hungry.
Expectation: You’ll spend the evening dancing in the moonlight to “Funny Valentine.”
Reality: There are either 30 other couples on the dance floor and you’re being smushed up against them, or there aren’t any others and it’s way too awkward to lead. The band keeps playing “Goin’ to the Chapel,” so there’s an added element of uncomfortable. It’s probably best to just bob along and watch.
Expectation: Sexy lingerie time!
Reality: You’re still bloated. This thing has so many straps. Nothing should have this many straps. Wedgies are imminent.
Expectation: Making love, whatever that means.
Reality: Three minutes of bloated sex followed by two episodes of “Ganglands” and one hour of you both wishing you’d just stayed home.
Conclusion: Eh, it’s time to give up. Just resign yourselves to the Food Network and be done with it all.