Well…me. There’s no wrong way to say I love me.
I have never been particularly partial toward Valentine’s Day–gestures that signal amicability should be common place. I haven’t really anchored much animosity for it either–give me chocolate and I will eat it. But one thing is for certain, Valentine’s Day elicits the distinct brand of loneliness indigenous only to an occasion that excludes an entire arena of impressive people making the proactive choice to seek independence.
I often wonder if the bigwigs behind New York Fashion Week strategically time the events of our latter-season Olympics with the brief, subtle arrival (and consequent banishing) of Valentine’s Day in order to remind the dominant x-chromosomes participating in the week-long rally that should we find ourselves all dressed up with nowhere to go come February 14th, there is always somewhere to go. And it is usually to the Proenza Schouler after-party. Or, you know, at very least an iteration adapted in the comfort of our own bedrooms.
If performed improperly, Valentine’s Day, like a colonoscopy, is afflictive and uncomfortable. It’s corny too, but that has very little to do with anal cleansing. I for one, am tired of fighting though. Why not take this opportunity to turn Valentine’s Day into an all-inclusive Hallmark-day, injecting our own brand of sweeping narcissism, to celebrate our undying love for, here’s the catch: ourselves. Frankly, “true love” should probably be celebrated every day, but if we need a reminder to stop and smell them fresh cut roses than so be it, a reminder and nasal explorations we will embrace.
So, how do we do this? Ah, yes, self-bequeathed gifts. Do you remember Dodo? I do. My best friends bought me a little gold monkey charm for my 16th birthday which I learned meant that I am fun to hang out with. It is, to date, one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received. When my first boyfriend broke up with me, I bought myself a little gold Dodo wolf hanging from a black chord. It meant “huff and puff until you’re mine,” which was desperate, really, but I felt great.
I have no idea what happened to him, by the way.
Finally, just three months ago, when one of my closest friends–a woman harboring a rock hard exterior and soft-as-fresh-fecal-matter interior–had her heart broken, she received a Dodo sea turtle in light of their shared qualities. So what am I saying? Indulge yourself. One of the most powerful statements we can make as women reads, “I love me.”
If you’re not there? I am most certain you love at least one of your best friends. But if you don’t? Get new ones! Or, you know, call me. I will ask rhetorical questions until the end of days. And in the event you have a boyfriend? There’s nothing quite like a singular, conspicuous hint. Boyfriend, are you reading this? Get her the whale. It means big love. Or, depending on the nature of your relationship, a rocking horse, which signifies a more convivial ethos. “Let’s play together.” Wink, wink.
I could go on with these 4-eva but I won’t because I’m still wearing the onesie I slept in and my feet are starting to suffocate.
In an effort not to let this message get shuffled in the Fashion Week rush, I just want you to know now, eight days in advance, that there’s no reason Valentine’s Day cannot celebrate love across the entire spectrum of human interaction. Now, to circle back to my narcissism point, if you’re wondering which charm I want, it’s that black diamond bat, which means “the night is young.” Because, baby, so am I.