Single in the City

As Valentine's day approaches, the lump of bile in my throat grows. This is the third year I have been single over Valentine's day and I have come to loathe the 14th day of February. Yes, many say that V-day is a crock. It's based on consumerism and Hallmark's pitch to meet sales quotas for the year, blah blah blah. If you happen to notice, the people that say this are the same people with mates (mates for lack of a better word; somehow spouse, girlfriend/boyfriend, lover, special someone don't fit). These are the people who buy the huge, gawdy cards and go out to dinner sheepishly shaking their heads that they fell for the Valentines day 2-for-1 deal at Red Lobster. While all the singletons (singletons for lack of a better word; somehow 'lonely, empty drunks' doesn't fit...well, maybe it does) either protest bitterly and outspokenly, masking their own disappointment at not having a mate, or hang their heads low and their eyes lower in hopes that they might not see the red lace and bouquets of roses that are the symbols of love and happiness ever after and be reminded that they haven't found their pot-o-gold yet.

Often I get frustrated with married folk who insist that I'm so lucky to be 26 years old and single. How independent I have become! How strong! How carefree! I am often reminded that we singletons don't have to worry about adjusting our plans to fit the schedule of a mate or family. We don't have the fights, worries, annoyances, grievances, and endless disappointments of a spouse and children. We may come and go as we please, eat pizza every day for a week, and stay up all night watching "MythBusters" marathons without it affecting another soul. We don't argue over money or whose turn it is to pick up little Jack from daycare. We can leave our hair in the drain, towels on the floor, crumbs in the bed, forget an oil change for months on end and no one would nag us.

I'll tell you what else we don't have.

We don't have someone to go home to at night; that person who doesn't feel so much a mate as a home. We don't have that special someone to share our miseries with... or our joys. We don't have someone who can pick up takeout for dinner tonight because I've just had such a long, rotten day that the thought of another responsibility or decision could send me to the Betty Ford Clinic.

We go home to empty houses and laundry lists of responsibilities and no one to take half the burden. We watch "Everyone Loves Raymond" and have no one to giggle and roll our eyes with. We have awkward dates and cold beds, and friends who transform from beer-ponging streakers to exhausted, constipated parents with whom we have nothing left in common.

We don't have little Jack's arms wrapped tightly around our necks as we kiss him goodnight or have the satisfaction and contentment from comforting him when he scrapes his knees. We don't have a date for a wedding who doesn't cause three months worth of gossip and endless questions about "where does he work? how did you meet? is it serious?"

Mostly, we don't have the comfort that we are implicitly loved – by someone who loves you not because you share the same blood, or dozens of cases of beer in college, but because you are you – and that is so wonderful that you are the only one they chose to wake up next to every morning for the rest of their life.

Valentine's day is just another lovely reminder.