When Valentine’s Day arrives each year I find myself in one of two modes – either ‘in relationship/something going on’ with someone, or not.
This year, not.
There will be no grand gestures or creative winter picnics, no need for candles, syrup laden poetry, ordering flowers, buying chocolate or sending cards …
My mind drifts to those merchants gleefully ringing registers on this day when so much V-day food and drink goes for naught. Don’t get me wrong – I’m no pessimist when it comes to love, loving or seeking love. I’m love thirsty, love loving, enjoy innuendo filled banter and brain-teasing joyfulness. I’m ready, willing and able. Who doesn’t? Who wouldn’t?
Still, it eludes me. The older (perhaps wiser) I get my need for company, for ‘witness to my life’ takes on deeper meaning while giddy-heady thrills of youthful passion remain available on demand from DNA and timely pill-taking.
I recently had an interesting/peculiar ‘first date’.
My first ‘first date’ in a long while. I thought it went well. I liked it – yet it felt a bit weird, partly because I felt out of practice. It ended with mutually stated good intentions to see each other again. Later that evening an exchange of email and text messages didn’t go as expected; the challenge of not knowing what another person thinks, how they communicate or how they interpret anything. It was a nice time but I now doubt it could go anywhere – too many differences, too few reasons to get jazzed, chemistry perhaps but no chemical explosion either.
I don’t know, and still I wonder, how can you know – you know?
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