Note To Self #116: Wtf is a valentine anyway?
February 13, 2017
Seven weeks and two days since I’ve been home. That’s 73,440 minutes of me coming to terms with a failed attempt at a desired career. But for two-thirds of that time, I’ve been fighting. The loss of what I presumed to be my dream job has been a constant reminder that replays in my mind. The not-so-classy exit interview and the plane ride home are two memories that seem to be on repeat for me. Top that with the lack of any sort of love interest, and there was my pre-Valentine’s Day mood.
I remember reflecting on the choices I made in men. Most were just one or two dates followed by me dropping off of the face of the Earth. I wasn’t focused on the idea of dating at all back then. I put about 85% of my concentration into my work and 15% into men. Maybe even less than that at times. As a result of that, my dating life suffered. The only guy I took seriously back then lasted only four months. I was hurt by the short lived relationship, but quickly got over it when new money got on the table.
So, why the hell do I care now?
I’ll tell you why. In the next few hours, my social media feeds were going to be flooded with men and women showing off their materialistic “love” and “appreciation” for one another, and I was not in the mood for that. I could already foresee myself being deep in my feelings. In this day and age, you fall into one of the two groups on Valentine’s Day. You’re either in the Let-Me-Show-You-How-Much-I-Love-My-Boo-By-Buying-All-of-This-Unnecessary-Stuff-For-One-Day” group, or you’re a part of the “Fuck-Y’all-Social-Media-Flexin-Relationships.-I’m-My-Own- Valentine” group. I’m obviously a proud member of the second group.
I needed a distraction. A serious one. Instead of moping around about last year’s events AND not having a man, I decided to join a dating app to keep myself entertained. It no longer seemed so far fetched since men and women were already turning social apps like Facebook and Instagram into hook up spots. So an app like Tinder seemed fine or whatever. I created my minimal profile, chose a picture, and began the hunt.
Left.
Left.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Fuck this.
The idea of getting carpal tunnel in my right thumb wasn’t a part of the distraction. Time for Plan B. I contacted one of my homegirls to see if she wanted to go out to a lounge for drinks or something the following night. She must have been on the same page because not only did she agree, but she offered up several locations, a time, and a base dress code. I guess she was member of the second group, as well. We decided on a lounge in Brooklyn and we’d be ready by 9.
Valentine’s Day.
I tried avoiding social media as if it were the plague. However, it didn’t seem to quite work. I found myself scrolling on Instagram, knowing my eyes were certain to be green sooner rather than later. I would catch myself growing envious, so I would switch apps. Facebook and Instagram weren’t safe. Too many people from the opposing group, the “I-Love-My-Boo” group, were flexing on those apps. Thankfully, Twitter was a safe haven. More members of my group were too busy on Twitter either reciting what it really meant to express love or tweeting their disdain towards the whole day in general.
By the time it reached 9 p.m., my face was beat, my hair was laid, and my outfit was on point. I refused to wear red that day, though. I was in no way shape or form in agreement with this “holiday” and the red dress was for emergencies only. This wasn’t an emergency. On the day that I wore brown. Why?
Because the dress was on sale.
I’m serious. It was $12 at Charlotte Russe and I was already tight on cash. It served its purpose on the right dime and went well with a pair cheetah print thigh high boots. I continuously checked myself out in the mirror before I left. I was a caramel-flavored melanin goddess draped in a milk chocolate swing dress, and I was falling in love. Who knew bargain shopping felt this good? I looked at my reflection, no longer caring about the lack of a man. She didn’t need one.
She was beautiful.
She was sexy.
She was happy.
She was confident.
The woman who looked back at me in the mirror wasn’t worried about Jackson, TN. She wasn’t thinking about living with her parents again or the upset that was the end of 2016. She was living in the now. She looked as if her mind was on the idea of enjoying the night. So I followed suit.
Our time at the lounge in Brooklyn was a basic one. The turnout wasn’t a large one, but the crowd wasn’t small, either. Still, I chose to focus on having fun, living in the moment. We bought a few drinks and made conversation. We danced, drank a little more, and made friends with other women in the public bathroom. You know, regular shit. Not one man approached me and I was okay with that. Honestly. Truly. I was so focused on just having fun that by the end of the night I was actually cheering on my homegirl’s last-minute interaction with some guy. I don’t even know if she was that interested in him, but she played along.
On the ride home, I remember being so proud of my jaw-dropping turn out. I had seamlessly applied lashes to my natural-looking beat, blended my wig with ease, and got dressed with little help from others. My appreciation of myself was so fascinating that I forgot what today was. Valentine’s Day was an afterthought. Getting on social media was no longer something I was trying to avoid. Instagram and Facebook weren’t the opps anymore, and I was more than ready to post a photo of myself as the caramel-flavored melanin queen that I am.
Who the fuck needs a Valentine?
From now on, Valentine’s Day will be a day of celebrating love of self. Forget that couple shit. I’m going to love me. I’m going to show myself that I care and take her out. She’s going to get a new dress, she’s going to get her hair done, and she’s going to slaaaaaay her makeup. She deserves to feel special today, too, and she for damn sure doesn’t need a Valentine to do it for her. She has me.