In the first 21 years of my life, I faithfully pledged to the Circle of Singlehood. I made sure that my dear friends and parents, the only ones who could bear to lend their ear, knew consistently of my Singlehood and how ready I was to have a boyfriend. My pledge to the alliance wasn’t without grudge– my graceless attempts got unrequited results, and I’d once again find myself daydreaming alone. Valentine’s Day, then, was possibly the worst holiday as it reminded me of my ties to Singlehood while everyone else celebrated their liberation from it.
“It’s all commercials and economy stuff,” Kayla said over the phone.
A co-worker had recently taken great interest in her, and while she savored the passions of young love, I was sweeping cobwebs in the love den.
“It still sucks,” I said. “I’ve lived for so long and not even once have I received flowers from anybody! Not that you have to get flowers, but still. All the guys on campus look like they’re in a hurry and go to that flower shop, and they walk around with a rose in their hand. Uggghh!”
“Aw, it’s okay. It will happen soon.”
She’s trying to cheer me up, I thought.
“A guy will come along and sweep you off your feet,” she said.
“Ha! Right. I’ll just stuff my face in ice cream or something and mope.”
We dropped the topic and moved on, talking about all the other topics until they were exhausted. I continued my week without much thought of Valentine’s Day, until the doorbell rang and Mom called me downstairs on the day-of.
“Who was it?” I said.
“I don’t know, no one was there. Do you have a secret admirer?” she teased.
“I wish!” I scoffed.
But Mom’s comment made me curious. By the doorstep was a collection of gifts: a purple bear, a crisp white envelope, a carton of ice cream, and a bouquet of flowers. I felt like the most loved person in the world.