Love St(r)uck

The last time Valentine's day fell on a Saturday I had just turned twenty-three, and had no true concept of the inner-workings and politics of the day. I honestly hadn't thought about it much. It always mustered this intense feeling of certain lonliness.

That one person I wanted to attract on that day will still not be attracted to me.

So that day, as on others, I cared, because I was seeing someone, it was new, and those sorts of things usually make for many smiles and many good feelings on Valentine's day.

It was also the day of the Slam Dunk contest, and like a child, I was alotted time to watch it by my girlfriend at the time.

But that day I bought things. I ran to many corners of the city to find things that I believed she might like. For a boy, on a budget, I tried my best, and I was thoughtful. The girls at her job thought so.

She didn't.

The takeout was soggy, the dunk contest got me too excited, the sex was complacent, and we argued for an hour the next morning about me not wanting to make an hour-train ride to canal street to escort her to work by eight a.m.

She left the flowers I gave her unopened on my sofa.

She didn't care that morning that the Yankees had signed Alex Rodriguez in the middle of the night.

Of all the empty-feeling experiences in my life, none have felt more empty or memorable. I didn't even wish I was spending it with another woman, I wished, desperately, that I didn't care about Valentines's day.

So I stopped.

I stopped pretending to even like the day, and for five years since, I've been nice to some on the day, devoid of reciprocity on the day with my girlfriends, and mostly sour in mood and body language. I was only happy two years ago when there was a snowstorm and no one could go out. No one could celebrate. No one traded oral sex for jewelry or flowers or a dinner at a crowded restaurant. People had their self-respect.

But last night I walked around alone, wishing that I could have done something for someone instead of watching the Dunk Contest at a bar. The people there looked miserable like I did.

They cared more about Dwight Howard than each other. They all slept alone last night the way I did.

But the day is only significant to me because of the date. It is a day for fakeness, and cutesy and sexy. A day for the senses. For smells and looks and surprises. A day for tongues and skin, a day to hate yourself, then love your life. It is, an affirming holiday for those who are not like me at all.