My husband and I went out to dinner last night for Valentines day. (Ruby Tuesday’s, a chain restaurant that happens to have the best salad bar ever, with 55 items.)
My daughter stayed home and bought herself a heart-shaped pizza. She’s single and not happy about it. I bought her a stuffed elephant holding a heart, because my mom always bought me something on V-Day when I was younger.
Valentines Day is not just for lovers. It’s for everyone, damn it.
My husband also brought me home a box of chocolates. I offered my daughter a piece, but she declined.
“I’m going to Mecca tomorrow, when all the candy is discounted.”
“Good idea,” I said, eating a caramel chocolate from my box.
When I think about it, I haven’t really been single for almost 23 years. Unlike my daughter, I’ve never had much of a problem in the boyfriend department.
Although, truth be told, I’ve attracted some real asshats in my day.
I’m not sure how to deal with her negativity on this topic. I want her to be happy, of course, but I also don’t want her pinning her self-worth on whether or not she has a boyfriend.
I think the older you get, the less you expect. I was happy enough with a nice dinner out and a box of chocolate. No rose petals, angels playing harps or major fanfare. I don’t believe in that shit, anyway.
I’m one of the least romantic people that you’ll ever meet.
“You know,” I said to her, “it’s better to be single than to be with some fucknut, dear.”
She gave me a pained look.
“I’ll never find anyone unless I’m willing to have sex with them.”
I think she might have a point. Boys her age, if I recall, are really horny devils.
“Keep hanging in there, honey,” I said in my best comforting mom voice.
Then she took a bite from her last slice of heart-shaped pizza.