Historically, Valentine’s Day has been one of my favorite holidays. My love stems from its excessive use of pastels, champagne, and adorable heart shaped treats. Not to mention the bevy of prixe fixe menus involving lobster, oysters, and chocolate. Up until this point in my life, Valentine’s Day to me is equivalent to heart shaped Jell-O shots, chocolate covered strawberries, and over consumption of sparkling wine.
Perhaps it is the fact that this is my 25th consecutive Valentine-less Valentine’s Day, but this year I didn’t feel the same convivial spirit around the day of St. Valentine. I skipped my annual Valentine craft night and breezed past the pink construction paper, glitter glue, and doilies in Duane Reade. I avoided the heart shaped gummies, once a famous addition to my cherry Valentine Jell-O shots, and didn’t bake a single heart shaped angel food cake.
I effectively played the part of the grinch that stole Valentine’s Day. I haven’t even yet raided the half off conversation hearts, currently discarded in pharmacy aisles nationwide. It is not that I begrudge couples their undying affection and celebrations, however this year I needed to sit Valentine’s Day out. No themed libations, outfits, baked goods, or crafts were in sight. My anti-Valentine weekend ended anticlimactically with a Roseanne marathon and me receiving a jury summons. I am glad that I enjoyed a traditional bitter single female Valentine’s Day this year, however I feel a bit unfulfilled.
So next year, it is back in full force. I will have it all. Pink beer, streamers, roses, and a heart shaped piñata. I will be baking my heart shaped whoopee pies, making aphrodisiac champagne cocktails, and rolling fresh made heart shaped pasta, while reciting love inspired haikus, and sporting heart shaped potholders. The cat is getting a bedazzled heart covered sweater vest and no one in site will be without one of my handmade Valentine’s Day cards. I am sorry I missed you this year, but I’ll see you in 2011 V-Day!
A timeless New York cliché is that everyone is constantly in a hurry. Frantic residents scurry around manically knocking over the elderly, elbowing tourists, and leaving the blind in the dust. I maintain a tortoise inspired speed based on my heat regulation issues, so I had yet to notice this as a truism until the past week. I typically get from point a to point b while tucked away in an ipod induced reverie and slower pace, however it seems to be true that all other New Yorkers have one of three things that I don’t.
a) more important places to be
b) the ability to remain a normal temperature
c) a death wish
Not only do people legitimately sprint along avenues as if there is some type of pot of gold or all you can eat pizza buffet at the end, but they gallivant in front of speeding vehicles as if they magically do not have the ability to hit them. In the rare occasion that I am not lost I do enjoy the feeling of walking boldly into the road so confident in my route that I must display to all around me. Each time I tempt the traffic gods with a brassy step, there is another that must step a little further until there launches a veritable Russian roulette hokey pokey hybrid.
Maybe this is why I am eternally 10 minutes late, but I refuse to rush or risk my life to get where I am going. Based purely on my own perception of reality and timing, I would say the average red light is about 1 minute and 30 seconds. Additionally, a 6 train comes every 45 seconds, so a sprint isn’t warranted for the daily subway catching endeavor either. I won’t claim to be right about everything, however I am fairly certain street sprinters worldwide could benefit from slowing down and giving up the 5 minutes saved daily by rushing and tempting traffic odds. Or alternatively, maybe I could benefit by hurrying up and starting to be a little bit timelier. Who knows?
It used to upset me greatly when people would bail on plans due to unfavorable weather. “I see no reason why we should be cooped up all winter long crying in our soup.” I would shout, fists in the air. I for one was not to be put out of a good time based on a few snowflakes or gusts of wind. Perhaps this school of thought stemmed from my heat disorder and the idea that one can bundle for the cold by appropriately layering, however it was always a disappointment when people would hid themselves away for the winter months, leaving me to frolic by my lonesome.
It wasn’t until this weekend as I lay on the couch for the 8th hour of syndicated television, refusing to even exit the apartment for a brief breath of fresh air or to see a single fellow human being that I realized things had changed. In true comic book form, a tiny light bulb illuminated above my head and I suddenly realized I am depressed. I no longer enjoy activities that I once did, all I want to do is sleep, and I the thought of venturing into the outside world overwhelms me excessively. The cold dark days of winter have zapped every ounce of joy from my life.
Just as I resign myself to a life of solitude and gloom, with plans only to play the saxophone on fog infested street corners and to pour out my soul to price gauging therapists, I experience a faint hallucination/daydream in which I am skipping through a field of blooming wild flowers with a basket of puppies, basking in the warm glow of sunshine. And it hits me. I don’t need a therapist at all. I need one of those little heat lamps that trick your body into thinking life isn’t awful.
That is right folks, I am SAD. I am lethargic and craving carbohydrates, which the official website indicate as signals of SADness. Apparently I can either get the lamp, some antidepressants, or explore talk therapy, however I would prefer to take the route of the hibernator. So like our friends, the bear, bat, and some types of squirrel I will be stocking up on snacks and burrowing myself away for the remainder of this insufferable tundra known as winter. I will see you in 6 weeks.
I am basically in love with this crafty little UES graffiti artist. I am not sure if his “Become Your Dream” theme is a promotion for a local coffee shop or maybe gang speak for murder or something, but I am all about him (or her). He also loves to draw little fish that are either kissing or smoking cigarettes in chalk on the sidewalk, but I prefer the furniture messages. I love finding an abandoned medicine cabinet, coffee table, or mattress and wondering if I will see my favorite inspirational message painted across it.
It is definitely the little things in life, and pretty much every day in which I drag along to work and my eye catches a stray chair or bookcase I have noticed that I walk a little faster, with a little extra purpose, and the full intent to become my dream.