Valentine’s Day

Raise your hand if you've been personally victimized by Saint Valentine

I’ve never been too good at keeping track of time. On summer break, it’d take me a few days to fully forget what day it was. When I realized I’d forgotten, usually looking out the car window with my forehead pressed against the cool glass, I’d feel the apples of my cheeks ripe and lips curl; I was free. Now that I haven’t worked a regular 9-5 job in a little over a year, I keep a loose clue of the days of the week with flowers. I’ve always loved flowers, and with the flexibility of time, buying them has become a steady routine for me. English roses are some of my favorites. They’re feminine but a little messy, in an Alexa Chung sort of way. Tulips are great, too; it took me a while to embrace them as I thought they were a bit too 2020 clean girl aesthetic until I suddenly stopped feeling so- is that how trends work?

On Sundays or Mondays, I walk to my local spot and design a bouquet with input from the florist, of course, and guided by how much money I feel comfortable spending that week. I get home and arrange them, carefully cutting and placing stems. The first falling peddles tell me it’s nearing the end of the work week. Swiftly, I toss them as if to extend my flower’s life. But time can’t be stopped, and they soon fade like the sky’s hues post-sunset. There’s a muted beauty in week-old flowers that I almost prefer.

“I love how you don’t care and buy yourself flowers, " my mom said a few years ago. Ouch. I had seen it as a treat but not something to be proud of.

Nearing Valentine’s Day a couple of years ago, I went on one of my sporadic morning jogs around Chapultepec. I love seeing the vendors setting up their stands, awaiting the midday crowds whose existence I can only confirm when I manage to get lost and return to the park’s main road to the streams of crowds. I prefer their quiet absence. It makes it easier to sit back into myself and watch the world through my fun house hall of mirrors.

A stand near the entrance has the best selection of stuffed animals. Their crucified plush bodies line a wire net panel. But the mix of colors seemed more focused. Drenched in pinks and reds, something was different that day. “Oh, it’s almost Valentine’s Day,” I realized. Classic teddy bears holding red hearts caught my eye. Are these timeless or retro? I wondered as I made a sharp turn. My mind instinctively wandered through my archives, remembering the carnation flowers and lollipops kids would gift each other on Valentine’s Day in middle school. I remember sending and receiving some, but never from a boy.

I turned the page and ran up a hill towards the state fairs I’d attended in high school. The colossal plushies boys would win for their girls were the same ones I remember on the beds of my older cousins or my older sister’s friends. They’d tell me all about them, how their boyfriends or exes played out the courting ritual of the early 2000s. “I wonder when I’ll get mine,” a quiet voice in me asked. Be it the incline or these racing thoughts, a warm but prickly feeling moved through my gut, sinking, much as it is right now. From movies, TV, and books, I’d vicariously experienced receiving flowers, teddies, and chocolates galore, so much so that I hadn’t honestly noticed I hadn’t gotten any of my own.

Then, like a bowling ball, the realization dropped on my figurative toe. Never have I ever been courted! No flowers, no cards, no giant teddy. Shots at bars and dinners didn’t count; those were not gifts, but rather, like coins in a meter, a way to spend time. I have never been courted, I repeated to myself, as punishing conformation. I tried to laugh off the tragic realization, but this little inner performance soon turned to whimpers, and the small tears mixed with my sweat.

Today is Valentine’s Day again, and like every year, it is not a day I dread but one that suddenly sneaks up to whisper in my ear, “Single, oh so single.”

I’ve been in Paris for a few months. I tagged along to my parents’ extended vacation, given I had no office job waiting for me back home. So, I’ve taken the opportunity to attempt to put off my existential “what am I doing with my life” dread and focus on anthropological research, meaning I’ve been going on plenty of dates. These, though sparkled with a certain je ne sais quoi, like the rest of my romantic encounters, haven’t blossomed into something I’d consider real. As a kid, my mom, aunts, and older sister types would assure me “it” would happen when I least expected it. “When you’re older, no need to rush,” they’d say. I obviously didn’t rush or worry too much because here I am, barely realizing it all. The day after Valentine's Day, I asked my mom if anything was wrong with me. I know this is dangerous territory, but at some point, an outsider’s perspective is beneficial, though Mom is as far from an outsider as it gets.

On Valentine’s Day, my parents had decided to walk from the apartment to Le Marais, and on the way, they stopped at a beautiful little flower shop. I have been hinting, aka demanding they get me flowers, for a couple of days. They stopped at the idyllic shop but soon politely smiled and left when they saw the prices—7 euros per flower. I can picture my dad’s face when he realized. But before going and meeting me for lunch, Mom noticed a “gorgeous looking” guy picking out a bouquet. She tried taking sneaky pictures of him to show me later. I couldn’t see much, but his outline was nice enough to inspire my question. It was middle and high school all over again. Was I pretty enough for the “cute guy”?

“Well, it’s definitely not your looks. You’ll get no complaints on that front.” Mhhmmm…I let that thought sink in, but much like a puddle, it didn’t go very deep while still managing to cause discomfort.

“What do you mean?” I ask- a glutton for punishment. I have the strange habit of asking my mom questions, knowing I won’t like her response or tone. “You’re allergic to weakness,” I’ve told her many times.

But that day, on my bed, she was trying her best. “Well, you probably scare them a bit. You’re always debating.” I cut her off, “With you guys! I don’t go around arguing with random men about politics.” Well, not since university, that is.

“What about that guy, L?” Mom asked.

“He was telling some inappropriate jokes in front of his friend, and I just hit him back with a reply, but like, in a witty, quick way…I was smiling while I said it.” I replied.

“I think that’s worst.” Mom said.

She was thinking of another example, so I beat her to it.

“And that other guy who asked me to come over to his after not writing to me in weeks- what would you have me do? Go over all smiles?

“No!” she said.

That guy, let’s call him Music Man (given we mostly bonded over our shared taste in music), was a surprising disappointment. He had seen very kind. He has two sisters! We had matched on Bumble and talked about Natalia Lafourcade. Then, one Friday night, we agreed to get drinks. By an odd misunderstanding, I ended up inviting myself over. He agreed while jokingly asking if he should be scared of me. I was almost offended. “You’re the one that asked me over; besides, I’m the girl here.” He was probably confused, so he dropped it and just sent me his address. Upon meeting and him explaining what he meant and me rereading our short conversation, I saw I did, in fact, ask myself over…His sister checked in via text, and he replied that there was nothing to worry about: “She’s adorable.” I know this because he read the text back to me. I blushed. After more conversation and him asking me to dance when I put on Crazy On You by Heart, I thought, “Wow, this is something... I’m not sure what, but it is something.”

When I tell my friends these stories, they often note how random and romantic they are. I seem to collect these moments, which are kept in a bell jar. I don’t know why they don’t grow into more, but I do enjoy looking back at them. Well, Music Man ended up being just one of those nice moments. After our second date, which consisted of going to the movies and him making me dinner, we texted and made loose plans to see each other again. Then, after a brief text exchange one Monday night…poof, he vanished. Did I turn circles wondering what I had said wrong? Of course. What if my jokes didn’t translate? Had I offended him somehow? But I also never reached out. My anxiety to know what had happened lost out to my rigid dignity. Well, a few weeks later, he was back from the dead. “Sorry for my long silence,” he wrote. Then, after a brief exchange, he asked if I wanted to come over. He said he had been reminiscing and was clearly... (I’m struggling to say this in a Jane Austen-approved way) ... horny. The bowling ball dropped again. Between his first text back from the Great Beyond and this 11 o’clock invite to his studio apartment, aka bed, I had managed to romanticize his intentions.

I told him his sudden reappearance, followed by an immediate late-night invite, made me uncomfortable. I assured him that there was nothing wrong with him just looking for a hookup, but that wasn’t something I felt comfortable with. My gifts of polite blue balling destruction are something else, god I miss debate club. He, somewhat defensively, replied that he wasn’t looking for a hookup and “actually enjoyed spending time with me.” I told him I would like to see him again if he asked me out somewhere other than his place. He took his time and hearted the message later that night. I’ve heard nothing since. RIP.

“I see,” Mom said, looking off into the distance in search of new territory to cover in this trotted conversation.

“What’s wrong with men?!” She landed on.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure there must be some kind, polite, smart guys out there who I’d enjoy being with,” I tell her.

“You just haven’t met any,” Mom spoke the truth.

After the Valentine’s Day lunch with my parents at Chez Janou, surrounded by a sea of seemingly happy couples, I won’t lie and say I didn’t feel like a bit of a loser. Not for being single but for feeling like the word's personification. But that didn’t stop me from noticing a great deal! I saw some stunning pink and yellow Ranunculus, or as the French say, Renoncule. Instead of 7 euros per flower, a corner store sold two dozen flowers for 29 euros. So, there I was, walking along Paris in mid-February with my mom and dad and my flowers in their noisy plastic covers. I decided to head home a bit before my parents and assembled my new bouquet. Then, I hopped in the bath before continuing to read the Bell Jar.