On this day in 2014, I was with some great mates in Australia, in the Hunter Valley (Australia’s version of Napa Valley – wine country), for a Dolly Parton concert. We stayed at a cheap motel, and drank whatever we could find, which was a lot. I was still a bit of a mess, but stabilizing on my antidepressants. I was growing out my hair, and it was at the beginning of what would be 2 years of that awkward-in-between hairdo. I had lost a lot of weight, and finally felt comfortable not only wearing shorts and a tank top, but also posing for a picture in them. Here I was, breaking in my first set of gumboots:
It was a hot and muggy day, with intermittent rain, which made for muddy grounds. A shuttle had couriered us over from our motel to the vineyard venue for the concert. We schlepped for what seemed an eternity to find a great spot. A good friend at the time had been engaging in a heavy flirtationship that for lack of a better description, proceeded to go tits-up over the course of that weekend (and not in the good way that lesbians can go tits-up). I remember lying in the next bed over from my friend, as she sobbed, feeling her anguish with every heavy breath. She really liked this woman. Hearts are awful things, aren’t they? They love who they love, regardless of whether that person is good for you or not. They know no boundaries, no right and no wrong. There is only now and only that person.
Fast forward a year later, and I’m on another continent, no plans for any concerts tonight. No plans of any kind tonight, in fact. I bought myself some flowers, my favorite (well, one of many): orange roses and baby’s breath. The bouquets were so full, I had to split them across two vases. Nostalgic point: the way Australians say “vase” vs. the way Americans say “vase”. I do miss Oz every now and again. Sigh.
For me, Valentine’s Day is overrated. I’ve had girlfriends over the holiday, and I’ve been single. Unlike one of my recommended readings for those overseeing their personal finances, “I’ve Been Rich. I’ve Been Poor. Rich Is Better,” celebrating this wretched holiday either way still sucks. I’m one of those people where if I love someone, I will show them every single day, and I do not need a holiday to force commercialism upon me to do so. I am a hopeless romantic. I don’t need any more encouragement, ok?
This year, this is any other Saturday. I will go to the gym; it’s extended cardio day. Now I know what you’re thinking:
I might do a bit of work, since it is my busy season and it would help to be ahead of the tsunami of tasks I expect Monday. I see no need to take myself out to dinner, to belly-up to a bar to drink pretend-sorrows away. I’m not sad to be celebrating alone this year, if you could call it actively “celebrating.” I do acknowledge a hole inside my heart where I’ve given away some pieces and where some pieces of someone special’s might inhabit. However, right now, the timing is just not right. I’ll never get the pieces back I’ve given away, and not many have given me pieces of their hearts. Patience, young grasshopper.
In any case, being a Bohemian at heart, I cannot let a holiday supposed to encourage love go without acknowledgement. << Insert sing-along to Moulin Rouge’s “Elephant Medley” and the charming naïveté of Ewan MacGregor’s character, exclaiming all you need is love. This will be the year I finally get to Paris, and to the Moulin Rouge perhaps, so I can belt this out to an unsuspecting and probably annoyed crowd.
So find some way to feel the love, share the love, give love, and accept love today. Marinate in it like a pig in mud, like chicken in BBQ sauce. Go and get you some.
idigres 