For The Bitter Melons
It’s Valentine’s Day.
There you are, at the grocery store, minding your own business, shopping
for cheese, egg, detergent, and probably some form of green leafy vegetable,
say kale, for example, because your health nut co-worker guilts you into
stuffing yourself with some nutritious sh*t that has multiple benefits which your
unhealthy mind cannot comprehend, when suddenly, you pass by the floral and
gifts section of the store and you just realized that the universe has connived
against your bitter self, who at this time of the year, is trying hard to avoid
remembering the most sacred holiday for people who are in love, the holiday of hearts. It just suddenly smacks you in the face to
remind you about what February 14 really is about.
You are alone. And
cranky. And irritated. And you are probably going to spend this
particular day on the couch watching re-runs of the funniest Super Bowl
commercials with a pint of ice cream as your weapon because you just want to
drown yourself with puns from a forgotten sporting event and from all the
saturated fats of the calorie grenade you are stuffing yourself with. And also, because you do not want to feel
sorry for yourself by spending this day with no one, even though the whole
world is telling you that this day is supposed to be spent with someone.
It is Valentine. Happy
Hearts’ day, bitches!
You then suddenly have this urge to run over to the roses on
display and start wreaking havoc. You
begin by tearing all the petals you can lay your hands on while chanting, “He
loves me not” over and over again until all what is left on the roses are the
stems, reminiscent of the lonesome rose from Beauty and the Beast when the
latter is about to die in vain. You are
pretty close to that state, wherein you’d rather be stabbed by Gaston than live
without being loved. At least someone
good looking murdered you.
Then you turn your attention to the balloons.
Balloons. Why do they have to be so huge, as if they
are very easy to hurl into the back seat of your car then drive away leaving
you blind from behind and in danger if being rear-ended? Is it worth it to pay so much money for a
brief period of ownership of helium trapped in a shiny bag in the shape of a heart,
a cute bear, or maybe even a hippo (the bigger the balloon, the greater the
love)? By the time it makes it to your
loved one, the strings are all tangled up, then you just give up trying to undo
the knots and hand it to her, which she will not probably attempt to
untie. She will just wait for it to lose
its buoyancy, or let her niece slaughter it to oblivion (whichever comes
first). So, to save you the trouble of
unfurling the strings, you just start violently deflating each one of them by
using the sharp end of your recently purchased knife so you can crush anything
that screams love, cuteness or anything that bears semblance to positive
thoughts because you are so negative right now you can repel any force of
nature that gets close to you.
You may also show up at work trying to forget about this day
but then everyone in your office is either wearing a red shirt, or rocking some
pink socks with prints of cupid, or stupidly parading a head band with springy
heart attachment waving at you as if saying, “Gurl, in case you forget, it’s
Valentine.”
Don’t even bother opening social media because it will constantly remind you that no one even bothered to send you any flowers. Most likely, ninety percent of your friends have posted that they have received some form of “sweet nothings” (chocolates that taste weird because of its coconut fillings, random overpriced bouquet of flowers, or worse, sparkly jewelries made to elicit the hashtag blessed) to commemorate the event. You belong to the ten percent who chose to be alone on this special day: the ones who don’t care, the ones who are still hiding in the closet and cannot post their secret love affair, and the ones that are literally having an illicit affair and celebrating Valentine’s day on the eve or the day after (or the weekend pre and post). Sometimes, it’s your choice to be alone because you are bitter. Sometimes, you are just unlucky to be on your own because someone dumped you for a hotter blonde, a better ride, or both.
Once in your lifetime, you will also meet someone born on this dreaded day and half of them will have the name Love, Heart or if you’re a guy and your parents are not too fond of you, Valentino. And these people will always remind you that February 14 is Valentine’s day because it is their birthday and you cannot do anything about it. It’s worse if they’re you’re friends and you have to atend their birthday parties and gift them a gift on the day you are trying to avoid the store.
I remember being bitter too, don’t get me wrong. I have wished ill of people that were so madly in love, gloating at their happiness and wanting them to drown with me in my sourness, wishing them diabetes after eating all those chocolates and casting spells at them that they will eventually break up, because nothing is forever (except for taxes).
You try to hide under a rock, but love is inevitable. You will see it everywhere and it will blind
you no matter how hard you avoid it. You
swear that you will smack the faces of those too cutesy with their loved ones
or those that are too handsy to be decently out in public. It just rubs you the wrong way, how you are
reminded that you are there, sulking in front of the TV, eating one pint of
frozen cholesterol goodness.
It’s just one day.
You will live. Get used to
it. The rest of the year you can go
terrorize others with your nasty attitude.
Leave them alone during this time because you have always been mean and
you always can get back at them for the remaining 364 days.
I’ve learn to tolerate February 14. I just go to sleep and wake up when it’s time
for Mardi Gras.
February 14, 2022
Copyright June 2022
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