Hey, folks. The title of this post will be on the next T-shirt you see me wearing. I've gone from just giving a snide "Yeah, right," under my breath at the sight of a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates, to now actively handicapping how long these romances will last, the romances where the sistah is proudly clutching her long-stemmed roses, and the brothah is wistfully clutching his empty wallet (Caucasians reading this, substitute "sistah" for "girl," and "brothah" for "dude"). One day, and he's the newest member of Kanye West's fictional fraternity Broke Phi Broke.
I ask myself why I'm so anti-Valentine's Day. Is it a) because I'm not actively seeing anyone? Is it b) because I think the whole thing's contrived to separate folks from their money? Is it a) and b)? I've stopped even asking. People were wishing me "Happy Valentine's Day," and when I told them thanks but I don't partake, they gave a laugh and looked at me like I had a horn growing out of my forehead. Jeez, you'd think I'd shot my lawyer-friend while hunting on Saturday and didn't tell the press and the rest of the American public until Sunday evening!
I don't know why I'm such a cynic about the whole thing. And who am I to question why? Maybe it is because I'm not wrapped up in the bondage of love. And given the state of the pickins out there, I think being cynical is a normal reaction to February 14. Even Diogenes, if you remember, famously searched the streets of Athens with a torch, looking for an honest man, and he never found one! No wonder why he's the Father of the Cynics. Try living in D.C., Diogenes!
So, yes, I survived... for another year. And I wear that like my own private badge of honor.