Valentine's Day has never been great for me. All of my close friends know this, and are smart enough to 1. leave me the hell alone, or 2. send chocolate.
Last year in Seville, I wanted to dress in all black and go bar hopping with the girls. I ended up sitting on the floor of a Morroccan tea house in black skirt, shirt and heels, nursing a bowl of ice cream from an indulgent British waiter.
Two years ago, Kaitlyn and I protested by being anti-social (what a novel statement, ladies. Way to go out on a limb), even though I ran into an ex-un-boyfriend in the D.C. Kaitlyn wore here Hanson shirt (the worst band), and I regailed all with the quote of the day, c/o my English teacher at the time: Sure, love comes to those who wait...but so does death. What a lovely, romantic sentiment, eh?
Three years ago I was too doped up on decongestants and conversation hearts to even think about what day it was, and then in high school...Well, we won't talk about high school.
This year for the first time, I have someone who actually wants to spend V-Day with me, and I'll be damned if I let TFA applications and my Spanish thesis kill my one chance at enjoying this candy-coated holiday. TFA is posted, and although our plans for dinner out got sidetracked again [note to self: Chestnut Hill is just a bad restaurant destination, period] the night ended well thanks to FoodSource. Wine and cheese back @ the apartment may not rank among the most glamorous outings ever, but it's good enough for me.
Exploding glass and near burns today, mostly due to *other* people's mistakes [grr], and now it's time to get to work. For real now.