Given the chance

          The Vagina Monologues were this weekend. Our performances went really well - especially Saturday's. It was in the PUB, and it was packed. We had to pull out folding chairs to fill in all available spaces; I'm sure we were breaking some fire code or another. At any rate, we were squashed in there. It's a smaller space, and it was nicely intimate, all engaged and relaxed.
          After the final show, we had a No Bitches No Hos dance party until two in the morning - we played a lot of classic nineties hits and rocked out. The Point and Smile dance came out to play for a bit. Everyone flailed around in reckless abandon (with or without the aid of alcohol). Magnificent.

          So it's come to my attention that this is the week of Valentine's Day. I write a weekly column for my school's newspaper (most of which is pilfered from right here), which comes out on Thursdays. I expect that I should probably write something on the holiday, so here it is.
          I wrote a little ditty for this week:
                    Fuck you twice, Valentine’s Day
                    Goddamn you dirty, dumb, shit holiday
                    You make me want to choke on a chocolate
                    So “fuck yourself” is all I can say
          Actually, I don't really care one way or another about the holiday. The line "Goddamn you dirty, dumb, shit holiday" popped into my head, and I had to write a song about it. But, to be honest, I really don't mind Valentine's Day.
          However, in my youth, like a lot of adolescent girls, I spent a lot of time hating the holiday. I cited reasons such as the cheap commercialism, the thoughtless dis-spontaneity, the hollow, flimsy obligation of it. But, really, let's face it - I just hated it because it served as an ungentle reminder of my single status.
          My friends and I celebrated Anti-Valentine's Day, sending each other cards with black hearts on it, reading such uplifting phrases as "I hate you." We'd burn mixes of CDs dedicated to unrequited love, spurned lovers, passionate dislike.
          Looking on it now, I feel like we just gave credence to the holiday.
          Of course, writing about it now is only doing the same thing, but at least I've gained some perspective.
          I don't dislike Valentine's Day anymore. Not actively. I still disagree with the commercialism and the whole "I'm gonna do something romantic for you because this national holiday expects me to" thing. But it doesn't feel like as much of a smack in the face as it did.
          I'm still single as ever - that hasn't changed. But, this year, I'm realizing that I'm okay with it. I can be totally fulfilled, perfectly happy, on my own. (I've written about this other places, but it's still new enough a revelation that I feel like it deserves another examination)
          I wouldn't turn down the chance for a relationship, but I wouldn't jump into one just for the sake of no longer being single - I do have standards. And there again, I still feel like a complete person. Flawed, sure, like anyone. But ...
          The thought of ending up on my own doesn't terrify me as much as it used to.
          Of course, there are still times when you just have to admit that there's a lot of validation in being loved. I'm confident enough in myself to know that I'm a worthwhile human being whether or not I'm in a relationship. However - there are those days, those moments when things would be made better by having that one shoulder to rest against, that one arm to link arms with, that one voice to listen to in sleepy, late night conversations.
          And I'm made to love. I hesitate using that word. I mean, I use it for my friends all the time; we end phone conversations with a quick "Love you," sign emails and letters with hearts and reflexive, unthinking endearments. And I do love them, as close as blood ties (but with more conscious choice and less built-in obligation). But "love" in that exclusive, unknowable, comfortable, romantic sense - I'm capable, I think, of that. I think I'd even be good at it.
          However. And this is a big however: I don't need it in order to define myself.
          So. Valentine's Day. It's not gonna reduce me to a maudlin, mawkish mess.


          I wonder if I get too personal on this blog. There's that degree of anonymity in writing online - however imagined or insubstantial an anonymity that is.
          I give up so much information, things that should probably remain in the interior, things I should reserve for close friends, not the wider world. But there's a cathartic quality, confessional, in speaking from the faceless, disparate world of writing - there's always that gap between the author's interior life and whatever life appears on the page.