Sunday, I picked up the most adorable designer Valentine’s day card and got it autographed by its lovely and talented artist, Bella Pilar.
I’m giving it to myself.
Whatever. To the outside world, it may appear a little sad, desperate, and perhaps even certifiable… but I promise it makes perfect sense.
For starters, the card was free… scored it at the Papyrus stand at Fashion Week. The marketing guy appreciated the genuine enthusiasm my friend and I have for custom stationery. What can I say? We’re traditional girls who like sparkly, decorated cards that pack a punch no text or email could ever give.
Next, I think I’ve been an awesome date to myself lately. I’ve taken me to a hot concert, the inauguration, a spa, the movies, a chocolate tour, and an aerial circus class; where I gracefully dangled in the air like that kid in the Dreamworks logo.
And finally… why shouldn’t I declare love for myself?
I gotta say that’s a nifty departure from what had steadily become the norm of waiting. And wanting. And hearing things like “I used to give my ex-wife flowers so I don’t do that anymore” or “I don’t do Valentine’s Day” by guys who probably would not have liked to hear me say “I used to do that , but I don’t do that anymore.”
Admittedly, I’m not a fan of the concept of St. Valentine’s Day. The massacre part intrigues me more. I feel like it grabs us by our privates and forces us to declare affection for people whether we love them — or like them just a little — literally and figuratively at our own expense. For loving couples, it’s an adorable addition to their romantic routines. For the rest of us, it’s akin to being eight years old and having a relative command you to go hug the urine scented elder, when you’d rather be climbing trees or playing “hide and don’t seek” with said unsuspecting relatives.
Either you dread the idea of spending absurd amounts of money on dinners, fragrances, themed underwear that does not have pictures of Spiderman on them, jewelry and whatever you haven’t thought of, or worse… you dread acknowledging that you have no one to get or give anything.
As a result, you’re now confined to your home to avoid being that person in a theater or a restaurant without a plus one. You become that salty person who gets annoyed by the PDA of couples and (sometimes) quietly predict their demise. You contemplate going places where you know there’ll be heavy V-day activity because single people occasionally garner pity from the staff and you feel affirmed by their inquiry as to why you’re single and shower you with compliments to make you feel (and tip) better. You will yourself not to scream, or cry, or punch someone in the face because someone actually thought it was a good idea at the time to show them in the corniest… sweetest… most imaginative way… that the recipient of their “valentine” is ostensibly the owner of their heart.
So this year, I’m proud — no, excited — to say I am the sole owner of my heart… and as such, I feel the need to express it in the silliest, cutest way imaginable. And if that means I get a sparkly card… then dammit, it’s gonna be the BEST sparkly card EVER!!
Did I mention it was Papyrus? Did I mention it was free? Do you KNOW how much those babies go for? It’s like the Tiffany’s of greeting cards!
As sociopathic as it may be to give oneself a card inscribed “XOXO from me to you”, it’s not as crazy as never having the kind of self adoration where you realize it’s okay to fly solo. It’s better than being with someone who makes you feel alone.
Love who you are. Love who you’re not. Celebrate your kindness. Your compassion. Your humor. Your intelligence. Your individuality. Your bravery. Your quirks. Your generosity.
And if you’re an asshole… celebrate your ability to not give a fuck.
Happy Valentine’s Day.