Tag Archives: valentine’s day

…and a little complaining about men.

I was looking up photos of clothing for another reason altogether when I came across a photo that reminded me of a Valentine’s Day nearly a decade ago.

The last time I had a date on Valentine’s Day, I was getting ready to go out. I had kicked off work early. Since I recall what I was doing at the time, that means this was about 2007. I had had a few dates with the guy already, but it had only been a couple of months, perhaps less, since we had first met. Since my birthday falls towards the end of the year, then comes Christmas, New Years and Valentine’s Day in quick succession, all days that men can’t stand because they’re afraid you’re going to hit them up for presents and expensive dinners, I usually assume if I’m single at the end of November I can dismiss the possibility of meeting anyone until March. So, I was quite surprised that someone actually contacted me on the dating site where I’d posted a profile a month or two earlier at the end of the previous relationship. I had been finding that men my own age were turning their noses up at me and was, at that time, trying out the philosophy “if you can’t beat them, join them,” and started dating men who were older. This man was thirteen years older than I was.

Being the kind of woman that would rather die than be accused of being a gold-digger, I’ve always pretended that days like Christmas and my birthday barely existed, I didn’t bring up the approaching holiday. A few days earlier, he phoned and asked if I had plans for Valentine’s Day. No, I did not. Would I like to meet for dinner? Yes, I would.

The past times that we got together, we met around seven. I decided to surprise him with a little role reversal and went to a specialty shop to buy him a box of fancy chocolates. I headed home and started to get dressed. Since it was Valentine’s Day, I wanted to make sure I looked, well, sexy. I had showered and was putting on my makeup dressed something like this:Woman in bra, tanga, garter belt and stockings.Somehow, I realized that he never told me a time or a place to meet. I phoned him. He answered and said he’d get back to me. About a half an hour went by. Needless to say, I slowed down a bit, but I continued to get dressed, more or less. I was thinking of calling again when the phone rang. He said he had to work. The guy I was dating before him had, the year before, had a therapist’s appointment. On Valentine’s Day? Wouldn’t your therapist think it was a good sign if you cancelled to be with a woman? Choosing your therapist over your girlfriend on Valentine’s Day is itself a sign of poor mental health, don’t you think?

If I had dropped hints about the day, I would have understood. But, dammit, this was his idea. He came up with it entirely on his own. Here it was, now going on eight o’clock on Valentine’s Day and I was, very literally, all dressed up with no place to go. I took myself to a local restaurant rather than sit in and eat the box of chocolates. I should have expected it, but I was not the only person eating alone in that place.

I might have even forgiven him, but you know what? A few days later he phoned. “What are you doing this weekend?” No apology. Nothing. Just like everything was hunky dory. Talk about feeling taken for granted. I told him I was busy that weekend. And I was busy the weekend after that. He sent me a few emails puzzled about what went wrong. I didn’t answer them.

I had never made a fuss over Valentine’s Day, so even when I was single it didn’t really bother me. For some reason, it bothered me this year. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself last night.

I’ve always had a bit of a lingerie fetish. Well, maybe “fetish” is too strong, but I like pretty underthings. The picture up top, I believe is a British company.

My favorite company is Chantal Thomass. I was reminded that the bra I bought two years ago, a little polka dot push-up number with a matching thong and waist cincher with garters, recently had the underwire poke through the fabric. It can probably be repaired, but it’s on its way out. No one ever saw it except me.

They have a new collection out now. This looks kind of cute.

Model in bra and panty.

I’m feeling a little bit glum and self-pitying at the moment. There’s a line in The Rocky Horror Picture Show when Magenta says, “We ask for nothing.” Frankenfurter replies, “And you shall receive it. In abundance!” I’ve always felt that my relationships with men were a little bit like that. Sometimes I think that it’s exactly because I’m not demanding that men undervalue me. It’s a bit of psychology. People value what they have to work for and don’t value what comes easily. By not asking for much, I unintentionally give men the impression that I don’t value myself highly. That’s not quite correct. The truth is that I’d rather be alone than act like a demanding bitch.

The first time I received Roses from him, I thought it was charming. The doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anything and the delivery man handed me a long narrow box that I knew meant flowers. A dozen roses from my new boyfriend on the West Coast. “To a beautiful soul.” I was touched. Charmed. I got a vase, filled it with water and put the bouquet on the table.

The next day, the doorbell rang again. What could it be? There was another long narrow box. Another dozen roses. “You are beautiful, inside and out.” Slightly less charming than the day before, but still charming. I pulled out my step-ladder and climbed to reach the other vase that I kept tucked away on the highest shelf. It looked lovely on the sideboard.

On the third day, when the doorbell rang, I had a hunch what it was. The delivery man smiled and shook his head. “Wow, he sure must be in love.” I smiled politely, but I was beginning to think it was something other than love. I phoned my boyfriend, “Sweetie, lover, honey pie. That’s quite a lot of roses.”

“Don’t you like them?”

“Sure honey, I love them.”

“Oh, good.”

“But don’t you think that’s enough roses for the immediate future?”

“Right. Got you. Hey, I’ve gotta go. Can we talk later?”

The next day, I received daisies.

A week later, my apartment looked like a funeral home.

“No more fucking flowers!”

“I thought you said you love flowers.”

“Just stop it!”

“You still like me, don’t you?”