I’d been inexplicably dreading Valentine’s Day. Which is strange, because I’ve never been a dozen roses/box of chocolates/grand sweeping romantic gestures kind of gal.
Way to my heart? A bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin and a large pizza (none of that heart-shaped pizza crap, just load on the cheese and bacon!). I’m a classy woman of simple tastes.
So why was I dreading Valentine’s Day? I assumed if there was any day where I would fall apart, this would be it. That I would somehow feel like I was missing out on some cheesy element of this over-commercialized, fabricated holiday I had never understood or desired before.
Saturday morning: I woke up lazily; the sunshine streaming through my windows.; my main bitch sleeping beside me:
“Hmmm, this isn’t so bad,” I thought to myself. I’m actually feeling pretty content.
Things only went up from there.
In lieu of having a significant other to fill my belly with delicious treats, I decided to spoil myself with a lavish full-body massage. Who needs a man when you have an excellent benefits plan that covers massages? Am I right?
It was absolutely incredible. This misleadingly tiny Filipino woman melted the tension right out of my aching body with hands of magic and steel. It felt amazing; it felt cathartic.
With my limbs feeling like glorious jelly, I proceeded to indulge in: good ol’ retail therapy, a facial, getting my nails done, drinking copious amounts of wine (what else is new?), chatting with all my besties, Skype call with my adorable goddaughter, ordering my own goddamn pizza and spending the night watching my favourite rom-coms without the grumblings of a certain nameless asshole.
I’m moving on up, people. That being said, if I ever did celebrate Valentine’s Day, I hope my future beau (coughEdSheerancough) would know me well enough to craft me this gem of a Valentine:
Current Status: making slight progress with Christmas tree (Miss J this is for you) / nursing a carb comatose / grateful for all the love in my life