“I spent most of my life Valentine-deficient, and wasted a good deal of brainpower wondering why.”
Throughout my life, Valentine’s Day has presented me a mixed bag of emotions. Secretly I always hoped for a mixed bag of jewels, but all that ever came my way was emotions.
I loved the notion of it: flowers, chocolates, champagne…tokens of affection from that adoring man. I hated my reality of it: silent telephones, non-existent dates, dinner alone. The closest I ever got to tokens was to pine for them year after year. For a time I wondered if I could make of go of pining as a recognized profession.
My high school “Valentine Carnations” fundraiser set the tone early on; I always hoped to get one from a secret admirer, but was lucky if even one of my girlfriends remembered me. I came to hate that day of the year, as I walked the halls from class to class with one sorry carnation, watching others struggle with their veritable bundles of stems.
Loved the notion; hated the reality. I think the official label for this is conflict.
I spent most of my life Valentine-deficient, and wasted a good deal of brainpower wondering why.
Rarely having a significant other could certainly explain the lack of token exchange; minimal dating makes for an empty mailbox. Over the years, a number of explanations for this were thrown my way. One or two were even solicited.
The High School Answer: “You’re too smart and grown-up for boys your age; they don’t mature emotionally as quickly as girls do.” I’ll take that; a girl has to love an answer that exonerates her completely.
The College Answer: “This is a huge university. It’s hard to meet people.” More exoneration, BUT, isn’t an abundance from which to choose supposed to improve my odds? Curse that logical mind of mine.
As time moved on but my love life stayed behind, I decided to cast aside exoneration and tried internalization: the answer to my query couldn’t lie in the entire male gender; it had to rest in me. The circle of self-doubt was exhaustive: my features, my figure, my personality, my style… some combination thereof just must be off.
The sages among us will recognize this as a complete exercise in futility, but for a good while, the emotional quicksand had the stronghold on me. The source of my epiphany I can’t recall, but at some point, I too became a sage and decided the self-doubt served no purpose, so I cast it aside as well.
Casting aside that self-doubt is undoubtedly one of the best things you can ever do for yourself. (Got that? Say it three times fast.) This is common knowledge after forty—The Coming of Sage—but a revelation prior to that milestone. I was ahead of my time; I caught on in my late twenties.
Hitting my stride career-wise did wonders for me. I believe there’s nothing like a little success for the body and soul. It makes one exude a quiet self-confidence and acceptance, and I don’t know that there’s anything more alluring—except maybe the bulky wallet that ideally goes with it.
Armed with this (the confidence—not the wallet), I suddenly found myself highly attractive to men—almost inexplicably so. If I had a “Babe Period” in my life, this was it.
And life was good, for I was seemingly without flaw to the opposite sex. I walked down the street and heads turned all over the place: cervical fractures, spinal subluxations, mass hysteria. I was even once referred to as “exquisite.”
Yes, exquisite; stifle the snickering. It was in Minneapolis, and I heard the man say it; not the result of brain freeze (for it was early summer) or heavy medication (for he was too young). “Exquisite” is hardly your plain ‘ol vanilla adjective, and when you’re its object of description, it makes for one of life’s lovelier moments. Still, admiration a la distance did not rustle me up any roses come that fateful February day.
It did, however, rustle me up a husband. Yes sir, before The Babe Period abandoned me, I came upon Mr. Right. Apparently finding love is like batting cleanup: you don’t have to hit .400; you just have to hit one out of the park.
Funny that I have no recollection of fine or distinctive Valentines from our courtship, though I do recall a great Godiva Easter basket. Given my fixation, you would think “stellar” in the Valentine department would have been a no-brainer pre-requisite for any suitor. Oh, well; ours was a whirlwind romance, and I must have been too overcome with the skyrockets to care.
Twenty years, a family, and the same man later, can you believe I still find myself wanting on Feb Fourteen?
It’s not that my husband is a non-romantic; point of fact, he’s a hopeless one. Now it would seem cash flow is my enemy. There’s always something better on which to spend the $$ than Valentine fluff. If he had his druthers, my hub would see to it I had that Tiffany’s blue and white with my coffee every morning. Yes, every morning. That would work for me; I can accessorize any limb, and there’s always the rotation factor.
With or without sparkly accompaniment, this is the gent who awakened me with Italian roast and Dove Promises bedside for years until he began the daily commute to NYC; he was going to continue it until I gently suggested that even caffeine and sugar lose their allure when served at 4:00 a.m.… even for me. Sentiment that deep is certainly something to be treasured, and it makes for a pretty nice 365/year Valentine. For the record, though, platinum will always be the perfect choice… and diamonds really are a girl’s best friend.
So back to my query: why did a reasonably intelligent and attractive woman—with pretty good legs, to boot—spend her single life pining for a Valentine?
There’s a mega-enigma, as I’ve now decided it requires an explanation of men. You see, I’ve circled back and found a whole new respect for personal exoneration. I’m not exactly sure I have the savvy for an explanation of men; I’m certain I don’t have the column space.
Actually, I don’t know that an explanation of men exists, and I’m talking throughout the Milky Way or any galaxy of your choice. I know; with a collective guffaw, they’re saying the same about women as I write, for herd mentality is perhaps their best event.
But this is MY story, so-o-o-o, I’m right and they’re wrong. It’s as simple as that. End of story. Defense rests. Verdict decreed. It is simply not possible to explain men.
Scary question for brilliant women everywhere: how can something so simple be impossible to explain??!!
I love the lot ‘o them—even if none of them ever did give me a Valentine.
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Denise Aisling is an independent bond trader who enjoyed ice skating and golf until stricken with Forty-itis. Now she’s working on sainthood as a church choir member and grammar-school volunteer, but her application is still pending. You can contact her at denise.aisling@gmail.com.
