he loves me...he loves me not...where is he?

I am looking for a man.
This is not an all-encompassing search that occupies the fullness of my being. It does not define who I am. It is as innocuous as my red hoop earrings. Yes, they are big and perhaps they do draw your eye at first. However, after awhile you stop noticing them. They never cease to exist. They do not turn to vapor on my earlobes, but their noteworthiness diminishes—like a dandelion in a steady breeze. Much like the dandelion, though my spores are often blown about leaving me with nothing to show, my presence means the planting of love all around me. I am the fertilizer of love. The seed, the bud, the promise, the hope.
Today, I saw a dapper man crossing the street. He is the kind of man who sends out his shirts for cleaning. His collar smacked of starch. He has a medicine cabinet full of grooming supplies. His nails are clean. He has crisp edges. He is a well-presented package.

He is of no interest to me.

Just as I am of no interest to him. My image made no reflection on his pupils. I felt him pass right through me. It looked like he felt a chill, but perhaps I flatter myself. I am his inverse. We don’t even exist on the same plane.

I am not looking for him.

My someone has dirty nails and nasal sprays. His socks are mismatched and his hair is unkempt. He is rough around the edges and soft to the core. He has become a bit desperate. He is not desperate in the way that causes him to long for a woman—any woman. He is desperate in the way that causes him to let go of pretenses and allow himself to freely give and receive love.

My heart is big. My heart is full. My heart longs share the bounty of its riches.

My someone knows he is worth more than his current appraisal. He has taken his lumps and, at the end of the day when the sun sets on his troubles, he finds solace in the act of his fingers interlacing and commingling with my mine. He is comforted by the compression of our palms.
When we collapse into bed, my head fits perfectly in the crook between his shoulder blades and the rhythmic beating of our hearts combined creates a symphonic opus. It is the sound of one million butterflies fluttering their wings in unison. All the while we sleep and dream of our gravest fears that otherwise have no power to burden us for during waking hours of togetherness, they are pushed to the inarticulate corners of our consciousness. They come in passing and, on their best days, are vaguely remembered in passing.
As we breathe, the rise and fall of our lungs in like the rising and setting of the sun. So, when we finally awake, it feels as though we have shared countless sunrises and sunsets in the span of 7 hours.
When we meet on the street in the dead of winter, we embrace and the warmth of his breath fogs my glasses. When this happens, he traces the shape of a heart on my lenses with his finger. His love clouds my vision.

Our love is like the sweetest Popsicle and the most quenching lemonade on the hottest of days. It is the moment, when holding your breath, right before you are forced to pass out or let go.

It is a head rush and I want it.

i'm just a coaster, but my wheels won't go

You had something to say. You told me it had nothing to do with me, as if that would make me feel any better. You said something about an awkward situation with another person. I have to admit that I stopped listening and slipped inside my head somewhere around these words.
As I got ready, I had a feeling there was someone else. I had the opportunity to back out on our plans and spend time with someone else. Would that have made those words go away or would it just prolong the feeling of hanging on a wire, inevitably fated to fall without a net?
Am I being overly dramatic? I would say that in relation to the emotions coursing through my small frame and oversize glasses, that my drama level is barely a blip on the radar—least of all yours.
What does awkward situation mean anyway? Is it a situation that brings you intense sadness or happiness? I imagine difficulty. Difficult words cruising down difficult roads. Choosing bumpy terrain in an attempt to avoid dead-end turns. It turns out one of those bumps was me.
You said you enjoy my company and there was nothing I did wrong. It apparently wasn’t enough either.
We had an amazing time on our last encounter. The air seemed sweeter that evening. We exchanged warmth as we lay in embrace. Then, one soft sweet kiss passed from your lips to mine. Bliss.
Now, I am faced with awkward situations and I find myself awfully confused. If I am the one who is constant and kind, why am I the one being pushed away?
I may not have clean fingernails or be soft around the edges. However, I have an enduring spirit. I will rejoice in your success and wipe away your tears when the world pummels you. I will take pleasure in in your whimsy and squeal with delight when the occasions present themselves. I will be steadfast. I will hold you close when the world forsakes you and hold you up when everyone wants to know whom you are and shake your hand.
Constant.
But, somehow, this is not what you want. You want to keep me close enough to lay eyes on, to watch over, but not so close that I feel a sense of ownership. A carrot that dangles never to be eaten.
This is my path, perhaps chosen from the beginning. Perhaps continually stumbled upon by accident like an end table that is perpetually bumped into when the lights are off.
Fate. Happenstance. Semantics. Trivial.
I hope your path leads to happiness, but even more than that, I hope it leads back to me. I can’t wait, but I can hope.
Goodnight.

TRIBUTARIES

Jodie Marie Johnson: "Ahh,Valentines Day. The anniversary of the day I met the man I thought was the love of my life. Boy was I wrong. Today I reflect on my past and thank him for all my beautiful children and the lessons I learned. I am so glad I was finally able to get me and my kids out of that life and am so grateful for all the people ...that have come into my life and helped me to start over. Life is good!"

Samantha Klasinski: "nothing like spending valentines day watching a marathon of stories about people who snapped and killed their lovers. gotta love cable"

Megan Penny Wright: "My valentines present today: plenty of sleep and an hour at home alone, not even the dogs are here. So nice."

Gabe Garcia: "makin love to my skateboard for valentines day. shes so pretty"

wax on, wax off

I must admit that I find the ritual of waxing quite peculiar. Don’t get me wrong. It is a ritual I engage in, but a peculiar one all the same. In the days of trapping, one would pay a handsome price for a pelt. Now we pay someone to take ours. The other sensation I find peculiar is being in a room with a stranger, completely naked from the waist down but completely clothed from the waist up. It is like the sort of juvenile, wham-bam-thank you ma’am love that happens in the back seat of a car. I would almost feel more comfortable if I were completely naked. There is more of a feeling of continuity there.
My appointment was for an extended bikini wax. I choose this service because, in my mind, it is the perfect balance between matron and porno crotch. I do not find the idea of having either very appealing. The extension takes enough away so that I feel the vestibule is accessible without taking so much away that I need to use the terminology “bacon strip” while referencing it. Perfect, no?
I walked in and went through the usual motions: discarded bottom vestiges, laid on table and placed the ceremonial towel that is yanked away almost as soon as it is set. The woman began as she does, asking me how life was, pillow talk of sorts. Then, she asks if I “wanted to follow the same lines or try a shape?”
“like what?”
“A heart.”
“A heart?”
“For Valentine’s Day.”
“Really?!”
I am still a bit befuddled by the exchange, but happy to be hairless again.

the mattress mistress

Love hurts. In fact, it literally kills people some people. I do not believe this happens is because love is bad, or evil. Love is pure, like salt. Love also knows no boundaries. This can be dangerous in the wrong person’s hands. The motives of one pursuing love must be as pure as the driven snow, because of love’s all-encompassing elements. When this reverence is not observed the result is devastating. Love will buck and break itself much like a poorly trained pit bull. The ensuing disaster can be fatal. The 1990s brought on such a tragedy for one unlucky man.
He was in his 50s and his quest for love was driven my vanity. He took a young girl to be his beautiful trophy. I thing to dote over and look sweet on his increasingly-aged arm.
I imagine the events to have transpired like this:
He surprised her with a jet-setting trip for a few days, because she loved spontaneity. It reminded him of his younger days and he felt young by proxy. As they wandered through the bustling airport to their departure gate, he got very light-headed and needed to sit down for a spell. He chalked it up to dehydration and did not want to upset his sweet Juliet before their romantic get away.
They had dinner reservations and a night of painting the town red on the agenda. As she primped herself in the suite’s vanity mirror, he presented her with a bejeweled necklace. It resembled a strand of twinkling raindrops resting serenely on her emaciated and protruding collarbone. She loved it!
They enjoyed a four-course meal and the finest of champagne. The bubbles tickled their noses ever so slightly and buoyed their spirits to a state of effervescence. They danced until they believed they could not dance anymore. Then, they danced all the way home.
The intensity of their evening came to a head on the 400-thread count, Egyptian cotton sheets. He loved the moistness of her young, supple skin pressed against the thread-bare dregs of his life-atrophied body while he thrust and thrashed on top of her. She often had a glassy, distant look in her eyes when he exploded and shuddered in the briefest of deaths. He would tell her he often saw a light at the end of the tunnel at the moment he was cumming inside of her. He was preparing himself for the sweet surrender. The flash of bright, vivid colors that flooded his plane of vision and the dancing of the hairs all down his spine. This time instead of color, he saw the best moments of his life and then black.
He was found in an Accra hotel room. The body he left behind was completely void of dress, his mouth brimming with the foam of a rabid dog trying desperately to control an infectious disease. For this man, it was love. He could not keep up with his Juliet and his heart gave out. The young woman left the hotel without declaration and her identity may never be known.
Urban legend has it that the events of his death transpired on Valentine’s Day. Incidentally, no one has ever died on Single’s Awareness Day.

cavaties and paper cuts

That is what results from faux-romance driven holidays that focus on consumerism, candy, and card stock.
So, this is February. The time of the year when all the couples in the world pair up and forget the existence of all other human life. In actuality, my truthiness statistic indicates that approximately 90% of all couples break up on or around Valentine's Day. If you have not experienced this phenomenon, then you're dodging a bullet that surely cannot be dodged for very long.
Suitable alternative? Have no fear; I've found one. I find it better to celebrate a different holiday than the violent, fat, naked baby holiday pushed by greeting card and chocolate companies. What's the holiday you ask? Why it's Single's Awareness Day! On this day you will find me in neither pink nor red, for the colours of S.A.D are navy and chartreuse.
How do you celebrate this wonderful holiday? Another good question. Thanks for asking, readership.

My suggestions include:
1. Make and name a piñata after a past lover. The difference between the piñata and your former love is that it's ok to beat a piñata with a stick until you are able to get the sweetness to come pouring out.
2. For every nice thing you say to a single person, say 5 not-so-nice things to that obnoxious couple ahead of you in line for [insert tedious errand required of most grown ups here]. you know who they are: "no i love you more, schmoopy." Or just go out of your way to do something really nice. (For instance, when you're buying your local homeless-run newspaper, like i know you were already planning on doing anyway, give them an extra dollar.)
3. Fly a kite and/or catch raindrops on your tongue (these are climate-based suggestions).
4. Pamper yourself. Get a foot and/or hand massage. Regardless of your gender, your hands and feet work hard for you and deserve a reward from time-to-time.
5. Replace one green vegetable in your meals with dessert all day, and if you were already planning on eating dessert--double dessert!
6. Just get rid of that box of letters and move on already!
7. Part your hair on the opposite side, so you can see how you look to other people.
8. Learn how to count and say your A,B,Cs in another language (or learn the alphabet of your native tongue).
9. Try a new food you always thought you would hate, but this time do it pretending you've always thought you'd love it. (this is especially good for people IN relationships to do w/o their significant other. This is good because there isn't anyone there to say "i knew you'd like it!" it can be your little secret).
10. Get ridiculously dressed up and go to the grocery store. You'll feel like a celebrity--everyone will stop and look at you (not that they don't already).

The wonderful thing about this holiday is that you don't actually need to be single to celebrate it. Much like you don't need to be African American to celebrate Black History Month, which I might add is this month as well. You just need to be willing to spend a consumer holiday not being a consumer whore! Instead, grab a pal (your Single Awareness Partner) and do whatever satisfies your flights of fancy--you know you want to!
Let me know if you want me to be your S.A.P., I'll be learning a new alphabet.
xo

Bah Humbug!

This marks the beginning of my favorite anti-ritual. I do not fancy myself a Scrooge. I can find the good in most things. However, there are some things that I can neither justify nor abide. February is the home to one of these such things—Valentine’s Day. I occurred to me that I don’t know a thing about the holiday that I despise so much. So, this year we are going to start off with a history lesson.

Saint Valentine's Day is an annual holiday held on February 14 celebrating love and affection between intimate companions. [barf] The holiday is named after one or more early Christian martyrs named Valentine and was established by Pope Gelasius I in 496 AD. It is traditionally a day on which lovers express their love for each other by presenting flowers, offering confectionery, and sending greeting cards (known as "valentines"). The holiday first became associated with romantic love in the circle of Geoffrey Chaucer in the High Middle Ages, when the tradition of courtly love flourished.
Numerous early Christian martyrs were named Valentine. The Valentines honored on February 14 are Valentine of Rome (Valentinus presb. m. Romae) and Valentine of Terni (Valentinus ep. Interamnensis m. Romae). Valentine of Rome was a priest in Rome who was martyred about AD 269 and was buried on the Via Flaminia. His relics are at the Church of Saint Praxed in Rome. and at Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church in Dublin, Ireland.
Valentine of Terni became bishop of Interamna (modern Terni) about AD 197 and is said to have been martyred during the persecution under Emperor Aurelian. He is also buried on the Via Flaminia, but in a different location than Valentine of Rome. His relics are at the Basilica of Saint Valentine in Terni (Basilica di San Valentino)
No romantic elements are present in the original early medieval biographies of either of these martyrs. By the time a Saint Valentine became linked to romance in the fourteenth century, distinctions between Valentine of Rome and Valentine of Terni were utterly lost.

Before Chaucer began his flowery writing, romance and Valentine’s were not even mention in the same room let alone the same breath. I am left to marvel at how the connection was ever made? The martyrs weren’t even two lovers. That makes for epic tradition.

I’ll leave you all to ponder this history lesson and I will let the seething begin tomorrow.