Valentine’s Day is always ripe with expectation. Somewhere in the ether, glittering like a fantastic beacon of hope, there is a half naked cherub ready to shoot you in the face.
Despite the fact that I am more likely to be eaten by a baby dinosaur than to be struck by cupid, I still hold on to that fervent desire that I will not have to spend this fictitious holiday alone. This is spurred by being surrounded by non-single women at work who will be getting flower deliveries throughout the day.
I hate them.
Which leads me to my next point: single women are demonically possessed on Valentine’s Day. Forgive my hyperbole, but consider the evidence:
Their heads swivel 360 degrees. Throughout prime floral delivery hours, heads pop up over cubes like gophers. Passing by desks leads to rubbernecking and head swivels, maybe without the Linda Blair bone cracking.
Their eyes are red and scary. OK, maybe that’s just me. An unfortunate side effect of solo martinis Valentine’s night while avidly avoiding romantic comedies.
They will have serious words with their deity of choice about the state of their life. And if they’ve had alcohol, this might sound like a foreign language uttered in a deep, angry voice.
Lesson learned: I don’t hate Valentine’s Day, even with being single and momentarily incensed by my flower-free workspace. It’s a day about about celebrating love (with or without winged demon toddlers trying to maim me with poison arrows). And I still believe in love.