valentine's day

Valentine’s Day. Four syllables that strike fear, loathing, and depression in the hearts and minds of typically sane but single women.

No doubt about it, the world was meant to be experienced in pairs.

I decided to view this day as an opportunity to reflect on the joyous, few and far between dates I’ve experienced in the past four years. It’s the only way I know to mitigate the misery of being single on a day so fraught with expectations.

First up, a guy I met on line. He drove an ancient Range Rover, loved dogs, was well educated, lived in a good neighborhood, and wrote well. Recently separated, he assured me he was ready to date, and of course, he was “fit”. [Aren’t they all?] He sounded good on paper. We agreed to meet at Starbucks for coffee. Safe enough. I made sure to get there first, and found a prime table to watch him limp through the parking lot with a small beach ball under his shirt and no visible evidence of a rear end in his pants. If he’s fit, I’m the Queen of Sheba. The conversation wasn’t what I’d call inspiring. He had the sense to never write or call back.

There was another, from out of town, also well educated and the CEO of a chain of hospitals. We met for dinner. I would’ve drunk myself into a stupor when I got home but I was already nearly comatose - from boredom, not the one lousy glass of wine I’d had. The man didn’t even smile or shake my hand when I walked in and introduced myself. Wooden; nearly totem-pole like he was so stiff; monotone voice; non-expressive face; boring and exceedingly accounting-like; lacking one shred of personality; completely incapable of interesting conversation; and if he's intelligent enough to be the CEO of an organization that big, then I'm fricking Einstein. Maybe he’d just had his frontal lobotomy done right before he got in his car to drive down from the hill he lives on. If I'd have yelled 'boo' he probably would have peed his pants.

Yet another came to the door to pick me up in his best Jimmy Buffet outfit (shorts, Hawaiian shirt, flip flops), freshly bathed in cologne. I’ve never been so grateful for dining al fresco in my life. I made sure to sit upwind.

And still another assured me that he was a “young” 61. We also met for coffee. I could barely stand a fleeting look, he was such a cyber-toad. He’d described himself as attractive. I’d like to know where he buys his mirrors. He was Durant’s twin dressed in golf attire. About an hour after I got home, he wrote; he thought we had “chemistry.” Yep, chemistry. Like oil and water, I'm thinkin.' Chemistry, connection with whom? Was I channeling Ethel Merman? He wanted an answer right away. I thought I should tell him I'm not his type; about the time he heard Prince coming out of my iPod, he might freak.

Remind me, should I ever forget, and once again get the hair-brained notion that blind dates are a great idea, to just schedule a gynecological exam, root canal, and IRS audit on the same day instead. They would all be less painful.

Fine. Being single isn’t great; in fact it’s mostly all about eating beans out of a can over the kitchen sink, falling asleep in your clothes with half the lights in the house on, and finding your wine glass in odd places the next morning….but maybe it’s better than being with the wrong guy.