V-Day, D-Day
Truth: I have never been on a Valentine’s Day date. Ever.
And it’s not because I have some righteous feminist view on this holiday and refuse to celebrate the sappy consumerist notion of Valentine’s Day. In fact, it’s the complete opposite: I have always wanted the entire romantic lovey dovey super cheesy V-Day experience. In high school, (I went to the all girls school with the yellow gingham uniform), I envied all the girls who got paged on the loudspeakers at lunch by the legendary Mang Baguio saying “May flowers ka,” followed by the “yihees” of paged girl’s posse when said girl comes back from the waiting room with flowers in her hands. In college, I wanted someone to pay some org to serenade me, or even just to receive some cheap ass flowers which another org was selling in the Quad (and I mean Ateneo, not ‘80s Makati). And after college? Let’s just say my Valentine’s Day dreams became a little less PG and much more ambitious and meticulously planned — I mean, let’s face it, the more of the world you see, the higher your standards get.
But alas, none of these V-Day wants have ever been fulfilled as for some reason or another, I had ended all past relationships before Valentine’s day happened, or I was on the other side of the world from the person I was dating. Even back in the old forgotten days when “ligaw” still existed, I somehow managed to “bust” everyone before I could benefit from at least getting flowers.
Hence I’ve always hated Valentine’s Day.
I tried to mask it when I was younger, with me organizing a night out with all my single gal pals each year, and defensively saying things like “Who cares about men, we don’t need boys!” Then post-college, I would just stay home, have a sleepover with my best friend, watch chick flicks and end up wallowing in self-pity. Then the 30s came, and it seemed to matter less and less. Valentine’s Day was often a day I had to work like crazy, thanks to it being a few days before fashion week, so it never really meant anything to me anymore.
And yet, once I have time to think about it, I still want the perfect Valentine date that I’ve been dreaming of my whole life. What can I say, I’m a sucker for sap. Will I get it? Probably not. I say this not because I think that I won’t have a boy in my future, but because I think everything I dreamed of for my perfect Valentine’s date has suddenly become obsolete and old fashioned. Truth is, my mentality comes from the same age as my hairdos and corsets, and I still want a date filled with thoughtfulness, where a guy will pick you up with flowers in his hands, open doors and pull chairs for you, write you Valentines, surprise you with random cheesy things, and walk you to your door. It seems to me that the older I get, the harder this is to find, and the more outdated chivalry and being a gentleman has become.
It makes me think that perhaps those in my generation who married their childhood sweethearts have it best because they froze their knowledge of dating from college, and still (hopefully) practice what they did long ago, while single girls like me are doomed, as the chances of finding a Romeo in this age are slim thanks to things like momol and Tinder and hookups and more that have changed our dating game forever. Mind you, I’m not trying to be judgmental — these were things I took part in and I acknowledge that I did play my part in the death of romance. Therefore, I conclude that Valentine’s Day is doomed. Now all I can hope for is that the next person I swipe right will prove me wrong.
