Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. So naturally, sensations of love, hatred, anxiety and gluttony have begun to fill the air. For me, it usually starts with the inevitable anxiety as to whether I have a Valentine or not. Then it develops into full-blown hatred once I’ve realized another one bites the dust. The final wave includes a substantial dose of self-medicating in the form of grease and carbs.
Whether I’m single or in a relationship, Valentine’s Day has always created utter chaos in my life tracking as far back to elementary school. I never once got the anticipated Valentine grams from my one true love, Sean. But, my most epic Valentine’s Day failure was when my boyfriend of two years blew me off to go bar hopping and be the “wingman” of his single best friend. But that’s actually how this story ends. Let me backtrack to the beginning.
We met while working at a restaurant. Like all unfortunate humans that fall victim to the hospitality industry, holidays did not exist for us. Therefore, we planned our “Valentine’s Day” three days prior. Sure, he took me to an immaculate restaurant in the heart of San Francisco that featured a silent French film projected upon a romantic brick wall. And yes, we enjoyed the finest bottle of Pinot Noir while savoring each bite of duck liver pâté. But unfortunately, the ambiance and food was overshadowed by the belligerent alcoholic I had the pleasure of calling my boyfriend and date. We fought throughout the entire dinner and eventually had to go our separate ways before we ruined the evenings of fellow diners.
I attempted to reclaim the night by offering a truce – bed snuggles and a movie of his choice. His response was, “Nah, I’m gonna head down to the bar for a bit.” He stumbled home two hours later, plastered drunk, eyes criss-crossed and resembling Goofy after copious amounts of narcotics. He climbed into bed and snored in my ear as I lied awake hating my life.
Three days later was Valentine’s Day and we worked a long traumatic shift catering to a sea of amateur lovers. After the restaurant closed I bought a bottle of expensive wine from the bar and presented it to my boyfriend.
“Wine, pizza and a movie to end this terrible Valentine’s night?”
“Umm actually, I’m going bar hoping with Kevin tonight. He needs me as a wingman.” He responded nonchalantately.
Not only did he ruin our fake Valentine’s Day but now he was ditching me on the real Valentine’s Day. My boyfriend turned me down to hang out with the world’s biggest douche bag. His best friend hated me and sought every opportunity to sabotage our relationship. And now, on Valentine’s night, they were skipping off into the sunset together to score chicks. Bromances are literally the worst.
Needless to say, I went home alone and heartbroken. I climbed into bed, rented the movie The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and shoveled an ungodly amount of pizza down my throat. With every lasting effort, I was motivated to salvage the evening by treating myself to the little things that made me happy in life. Little did I know, the theme of the movie that I rented consisted of suicide, loneliness, severe mental breakdowns and hospitalization. How’s that for Valentine’s Day romance?