On the Current Unpleasantness.
ALTERNATIVE TITLE: Happy Freakin Valentine’s Day.
For a long time now in this diary’s history, you’ve heard me rant yearly about the unpleasantness we call February 14th, St. Valentines Day. And most of you have probably figured out what is all to obvious from my entries on the subject. I’m a single person.
There aren’t that many single people I know who like Feb. 14th. People who are in relationships usually have a myriad of opinions, but single people, for the most part, stand united: we hate the day. But why? Well, in opposition to my normal fashion, I’m going to tell you why I dislike it so much. This might be a part of my psyche you’ve not seen before, so get your Tivo ready.
When I was in high school, I thought St. Valentine’s day was God’s gift to teenage men. And, in retrospect, it might have been. There was always a dance, so it was a ready made excuse to talk to the girls and try to hook yourself up with a date for the dance. (I never went to any of those dances because I was always too scared to ask anyone, but it doesn’t change the fact that the possibility was there.and I always went through the motions of who I would like to ask, and then get within a few seconds of asking them before wussing out. I can’t say I didn’t have my opportunities.) I was raised on a steady diet of old, sappy love stories from the time I was very young, and so romance and knowing what to do when you get in a romantic situation has never been an issue for me, at least if we think old, sappy love stories can adequately train a man for those pursuits. (Whether they do or not is another issue totally, and one which I might well address in the near future.)
In short, I was a true romantic all throughout high school. If there was something romantic I could do for a girl I liked, I was about it. Most of the time, because of some other things going on in my life, I worked my magic with the girls in my church youth group, with limited success. All the romantic training in the world won’t get you in the door with a chick who’s not having it. I spent my days daydreaming about picnics on sunny afternoons, and all the special things I could do for someone. I actually had a notebook somewhere with all kinds of ideas I had for what I could do. (I wonder where that notebook went to, anyways.) All kinds of cool ideas.custom chocolates for a sweetheart, from a mold you made yourself..that kind of thing.
Now, let me just say this before I move on. Some of you are waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it will, in just a minute. And you know what I’m going to say if you’re read my diary at all. But I want to say one thing first: Nothing has happened to that side of me. It still exists, buried, but far closer to the surface than I’ve ever been willing to admit. Though I force myself to be grounded in the reality (however cynical and pessimistic it may be), my most natural state is that kind of literary style romance of the poets-folks like Wordsworth, Keats, etc. I love that stuff, and where I live, that’s the lens I filter life through. If you’ve spent time with me, you’ve picked up on parts of this. Simple things like leaves and the breeze give me inordinant amount of pleasure. That’s not an accident.it’s who I am. And now you know why. And I’m not saying that it’s because I watched a bunch of old movies, either. Certainly that opens your eyes to give you a term to describe what you’ve always felt, but I’ve always wondered at the world. Always.
So, it begs the question: Why are all my diaries about love on this diary so negative? Why am I always bashing the womenfolk? Why can’t I just get over it? The answers, up next.
(continued, next entry)