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Wth Valentine's Day just around the corner, millions of lonely hearts are playing shoulda coulda woulda with themselves. The desire for a special someone to ease the isolation intensifies and many of us find ourselves eyeing up the mail boy or the cleaning lady in hopes of finding someone to spend V-day with. Wine fueled calls are made to exes who suddenly seem flawless; all becomes forgiven at the thought of a candlelit dinner and maybe a flower or two.
I've been there once or twice. My absolute worst Valentine's Day was spent with my parents, following a rather nasty divorce. My mother's good natured insistance that I not be alone was enough to make me feel like the biggest loser ever. Upon arriving at their house, I couldn't help but notice the candlelit dinner for two on the table and the shocked look in my dad's eyes as I walked in. I had reached a new low and I was now the ultimate cock blocker. I had ensured that my dad was shut out on the most romantic day of the year. I still cringe when I remember his pep talk, "Oh, sweets, it's not so bad. You've got a great job, your health, and a, um, well... (cough) Are you keeping up on oil changes? Bring the car over on Saturday and I'll take a look for you." Oh yes, nothing says successful single like a night of Boggle, Bud Light and a box of Purdy's chocolates shared with Mom and Dad.
Vowing never to be a third wheel again, to my parents no less, the girls and I planned a booze-fueled night of debauchery the next year. After spending a significant amount of time maximizing cleavage and eye makeup, we swarmed our local pub in hopes of finding like-minded men; those who were out for a good time, not a long time. Much to our dismay, the pub had turned the lights down low and offered plenty of seating for two. The hostess agreed to push 3 tables together for us, as we stood awkwardly in our thigh high boots and teased hair. Couples scattered throughout the bar glanced pityingly at us, then returned to caressing each other's cheeks and laughing over shared histories. Four bottles of pinot noir later, our carefully applied eyeliner was smudged and running. We relived past loves and asked where we went wrong. We piled into a cab and returned to my apartment to watch Love Actually for the 15th time and wonder when we'll have a prime minister hot enough to make us break all the rules.
While my tales of woe will not make you any less of a loser, perhaps you'll find comfort that you are not alone in your pitiful bubble of pathetic. Across the world, there are plenty of people just like you, naming their chocolates after former lovers and then devouring them like a lion would a zebra. Maybe you'll have better luck next year. But probably not.
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