this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on February 14, 2004.
I hate Valentine’s Day. I think it is rather overrated. Maybe I hate it because it just magnifies the fact that I am 25, still single, and never been kissed senseless.
I remember watching “Bridget Jones’ Diary” and dreading the day I would reach the age when I would spend my weekends alone in front of a TV, watching mushy love stories, silently cursing the screenwriter for coming up with corny concepts of love but wishing that I were the object of such professions of unending love, while burning my lungs with Lucky Strikes, hoping the smoke would blur the image of a candidate for spinsterhood. Alternatively, I would picture myself drowning in booze, with Celine Dion belting out “All by Myself” irritatingly in the background.
Maybe this all sounds pathetic to those who never felt alone in the field of love. But I have spent many days (and nights) wondering why I am in this state. If truth be told, I am neither stupid nor ugly. I may not have John Nash’s IQ, but I am smart and I can be witty. My looks may not make me movie-star material, but I can honestly say that I do make men’s heads turn once in a while. I may not be Ms Congeniality, but I can assure you that I have a lively personality.
Sometimes I worry that men are repulsed by the idea that there exists a woman who is both pretty and smart at the same time. Excuse me for saying that, but desperate people sometimes come up with desperate rationalizations.
If most men are bowled over by good looks and some by wit and an interesting personality, then I should have had dozens of suitors by now. Unfortunately, there is none that I can boast of.
I don’t smile with bits of parsley trapped in between the spaces of my teeth. My breath doesn’t reek of toilets in need of cleaning. I don’t go public clad in loud-colored blouses paired with printed ankle-length skirts and matching red, pointed shoes like Sharon Cuneta in one of her forgettable flicks. I have always observed social rules and I take care not to commit any faux pas, so why do I feel like a social embarrassment every time somebody asks if I haven’t had any boyfriend? And I feel as if my skull is filled with water instead of brains whenever they ask, rather insensitively, “Why?” I only wish I knew.
Even some of my friends wonder how I was able to stand, for 25 years, not having someone to talk to at the end of a long day, or not having someone to spend special occasions like birthdays and Christmases with, or just having someone to spend time with. I worry about it a lot more than I dare to show, and sometimes I pity myself, but I just have too much pride to openly flaunt my despair.
Nobody can accuse me of lacking confidence, but being unattached to this day makes me feel insecure and in a way inferior. It makes me think there’s something wrong with me. During girl talk, I feel like I don’t have the right to give advice on matters of the heart since I don’t have any first-hand experience on the matter and whatever I have to say may be worthless. In fact, on my bad-hair days, I feel worthless.
Ally McBeal once said, “Love may not work for me, but it makes me happy knowing it works for others.” Sorry, but I’m not Ally, and I’m not buying that bull.
Sometimes I get cynical about love and people in love. At one point in my life, I even hated listening to love songs. But can you blame me? I just feel like I’ve been robbed of something so special that’s available to everyone except me.
People who don’t know me might think that I don’t get along with men. On the contrary, I have a couple of male friends and we get along quite well. But they’re just that-friends. And I dare not cross the thin line between friendship and love.
I have dated a couple of times (I can count them on my fingers), madly hoping I’d meet my Prince, but it can get a little tiring especially when you’re dating the frog. A friend of mine said maybe I should go out to the field and play more often instead of being a bench warmer. Maybe that’s where my problem lies: I’m such a romantic that I expect my man to find me and come charging right up to me on his magnificent horse with promises of endless love (I know, I’m baduy).
Of course, in this age of bold and aggressive women who propose and demand to be on top, that idea is passe. And in that case, I admit that Bridget Jones had more courage than me; at least she knew how to get Hugh Grant (even if in the end he turned out to be the wrong man). Sometimes I wish I had the audacity of Carrie Bradshaw when it comes to men. But I guess I just have more of Charlotte in me and I cannot pretend to be someone I’m not, just so I could hook up with a man and have people say, “About time!”
I am getting tired of thinking about it all, of wondering about the reasons I cannot attract men or why love seems to be evading me like the plague. I have grown weary analyzing myself and dreaming of the day when I would finally find my Adam Sandler and begin singing, “I wanna grow old with you.”
But this doesn’t mean that I’m resigned to being a spinster. The waiting has become more difficult and agonizing, especially now when most of my friends are either married or having a relationship. But I refuse to define happiness and my worth, solely in relation to this aspect of my life.
I’m relatively young (although some would say not that young anymore). I have many more years ahead of me and life has so many more adventures to offer and surprises to unravel. I have always believed that God can read my heart, and He knows what makes me happy. He knows my deepest fears (like ending alone, I guess) and the things that would put me over the edge. He knows I will never be happy living alone without someone special to love and share my life with. It’s true that when everything appears hopeless and it seems you can’t do anything about it, just leave it all to Him because He knows better. It gives me much peace believing that.
The last time I looked at the calendar, I noted that I had encircled Day 14. I did it not because it was a day I most dread or because I had another date or something. I marked it red because, with a feeling of renewed hope, I knew that this was the last time I was ever going to hate Valentine’s Day.
