Valentine Interludes

When you're a single person, you come to expect that nothing but bad things and bad feelings will come on Valentine's Day. After all, it's dedicated to elevating romantic love above all else.

Platonic love plays a huge role in my life, but the world always cocks a skeptical eyebrow when it sees two humans together, particularly if (like me) you connect best with the opposite sex. You can't go anywhere—a restaurant, a movie, a museum—with a friend, without people assuming you're a couple and treating you accordingly. It really feels like coupledom has a monopoly on social activities. It's reinforced every day, but never more so than on Valentine's Day.

This is how it is every year for me. And so, nobody was more surprised than I was that a large part of today was perfect. It was all thanks to my very best friend who is generous with the most precious of gifts: time and kindness. He's sympathetic to my need for friendly connection, yet sensitive to society's incorrect assumptions. But social image be damned, we spent the late morning through late afternoon out and about, and my traditional Valentine's melancholy was averted.

Almost. Dinner and evening are still prime couple's time, which is simultaneously disappointing and understandable. If you've planned to spend time with a friend or two, they'll almost certainly have made additional plans for afterward, even if you envisioned that you'd be laughing and drinking into the wee hours. I think of these after-plans as the "main event," and my role as the interlude, which is something like playing second fiddle. It's like ordering a dessert so as to replace the taste of the meal on your palate. It's like you're good—maybe even great—but not sufficient. You're not the note that anybody intends to end on.

And then you're back to Baltic Avenue earlier than anticipated, wondering if that unopened bottle of Kraken will fill you with cheer or melancholy (hint: supermelancholy), while the couples take over the rest of the monopoly board outside the four walls of your apartment.

So you end up making yourself some toast for Valentine's dinner, and watching your favourite Downton Abbey rerun, trying to wring a little bit of self-pampering out of the dying day.