when the moon is the only light we see.

< back | up | next >

16 february 1997

11:25 p.m.

Dear diary, I never was much of a Valentine's Day sort of girl. Or, at least, that's what I'd tell myself those years I found myself without a valentine. This year, my Valentine's Day was wonderful. I don't even know how to begin to tell you about it. Sure, I could lay it out, minute by minute... I could describe how Derek personally delivered a dozen roses an hour before I got off work to optimize public embarassment, or gush about the fancy Italian restaurant where we struggled to pick apart delicious buttered clams by candlelight. I could describe the loud but friendly genuine Italian waiter (complete with funky mustache) who refused to let our wine glasses reach even half empty, and who insisted I let Derek feed me the first piece of the deadliest piece of chocolate cake ever contrived. I could say, "Then we walked up and down the beach, and saw the most awesome half-moon low in the sky, and laughed and kissed until our legs could barely keep us up." Putting it that way, though, makes it sound... usual. Almost formula. And that doesn't do it justice. That can't explain why I feel like I'm flying when I think about it. It was simple. Flowers, dinner and a moonlit stroll -- pretty much what I might have expected. But it was the mood. The energy. The sense that, for those six hours, our existence was defined only by the presence of the other. The simple fact that we were dedicating an evening to commemorate our time together. What we did is, basically, ornamental. Almost unimportant. How it felt, though. That I didn't expect. I don't think anyone really can. Now listen. I am still, and forever will be, a cynic. And frankly the "me" of a year ago is looking at the "me" of today (now sitting next to a poofy bouquet of blooming roses tied to an obnoxious mylar balloon) and shaking her head in disgust. Many adjectives have been used to summarize my personality -- some, to be sure, are still banned by the FCC -- and "romantic" has never been in the top ten. I've been known to go off for hours on the "Hallmark Conspiracy." I've blasted Valentine's Day as the worst of all sexist holidays (I still don't know what men are supposed to get -- and you better not suggest "cook him dinner"). Even I want to smack myself sometimes... like when I can confidently say, "It was eight months ago yesterday when we first met." But I guess I have to confess, under the cool skepticism and politics, I get off on feeling wanted and appreciated just as much as anyone else. Probably more. (Okay, definitely more. I have no shame.) Romance feels good... and Valentine's Day is as good an excuse as any to go overboard, to indulge, to revel. Why the hell do I feel like I have to apologize for enjoying myself? Forget it. For me, "single" Valentine's Days still outnumber "taken" Valentine's Days. Though it might be harder to stomach me during the latter, I have to say I like them better.