Memoirs of a Fat Girl

In a few weeks, it will be Valentine’s Day. I’ve known this for a long time now, as have we all. The stores have been reminding us since that infamous date, January 2nd, when its down with the Christmas trees and reindeer, and up with the hearts and Cupids.

It’s still a ways off, but the weeks are flying. And yes, it’s all commercial crap when you think about it, and not my style at all. I don’t want to buy the store out, write sappy poetry or throw rose petals on the bed, nor do I expect any of that in return.

But I do want to do something just a little bit… dare I say it? Special.

Sandy and I are going strong. Five plus months, one international vacation, two lunches with the parents later, and here we are. We’re enjoying each other, there is nothing to be fixed, and the relationship buzzing in my head has come to a standstill.

I am not used to feeling like this. What I’m used to is tension and frustration, not surprise dinners, serenades, and slow dancing at 10am on a Sunday. It’s a very good thing, feeling floaty. Being calm.

So sue me if I want to do something a bit wacky and off the wall on that great, commercially driven, propaganda filled day of love.

There’s another reason, too. It’s a bit more selfish. My track record for good Valentine’s Days isn’t exactly stellar. In fact, it downright sucks. If you don't believe me then just judge for yourself.

February 14, 1975: In the womb. I don’t know what my own toes are, let alone Valentine’s Day. Sainted bliss.

February 14, 1976, I am almost 8-months old and full-fledged citizen of the world. Struggling to walk and throwing fistfuls of baby food at various family members; still blessedly ignorant about Valentine’s Day.

1977-79: Too young to give a shit.

1980: Kindergarten. Cut 23 hearts out of construction paper, and scrawl my name on them with red crayon. Distribute them to everyone else in the class because the teacher tells me to. Don’t know the full meaning of Valentine’s Day. Don’t know that red crayon on red construction paper totally clashes.

1981: Recognize Valentine’s Day as belonging to the she-child who gives out the coolest store bought cards ever. Pester moms to get the pricey Care Bears pack. Cry when she brings home the generic Cupids brand.

1982: Recognize Valentine’s Day as belonging to the she-child who gives out the coolest store bought cards ever. Pester moms to get the pricey Smurfs pack. Cry when she brings home the generic Cupids brand.

1983: Recognize Valentine’s Day as belonging to the she-child who gives out the coolest store bought cards ever. Pester moms to get the pricey Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends pack. Cry when she brings home the generic Cupids brand. At least they change them every year.

1984: Recognize Valentine’s Day as belonging to the she-child who distributes not only the coolest store bought cards ever, but the tastiest store bought chocolate cupcakes ever. Moms doesn’t believe in icing. Give out the generic Cupids and keep my mouth shut.

1985: Recognize Valentine’s Day as the popularity contest belonging to the prettiest she-child who gets the most cards and candy from admiring boys. Really, was there ever a chance? I read Blubber instead.

1986: Read The Cat ate my Gymsuit.

1987: Read Johnny Tremain.

1988: Read The First Woman Doctor. Elizabeth Blackwell, you fascinate me. Mooned over the poisonous peacock that was Gabriel.

1989: Read To Kill a Mockingbird. Mooned over Jules, my best friend.

1990: Read My Sweet Audrina. Mooned over Chris.

1991: Read Jane Eyre. Mooned over Chris. My unlikely, punk he-friend Willow, notorious for skipping class and smoking in fire escapes, picked a flower and put it in my hair.

1992-94: Read The Odyssey, The Scarlet Letter and The Fountainhead respectively. Mooned over Sandy.

1995: Hatched a twofold plan with my single roommates in university. First, the underhanded scheme of sending each other big, sappy, romantic cards signed with guy’s names. Fictitious guys. Sure we were all alone for Valentine’s Day, but no one else had to know that. We just let everyone else think we were sultry objects of desire, besotting the world’s available men.

Second: To celebrate our brilliance, we went to a pub and got drunk off our asses. I felt better that so many of my roommates were single. We all felt better being drunk off our asses.

1996: Mooned over my first post-secondary crush, Bruce. To ease the pain, I instead go club hopping with Raj and some girlfriends. Original plan wasn’t to hop, but the sight of every club full to the gills with clinging, kissing couples was a little more than we could stand. Ended up at a gay strip club, where straight, roses-selling bouncer at the door says that tonight, no women allowed.

I snap. Multitudes of crap Valentine’s Days come raining down on me, and I deliver a rather pathetic monologue, repeatedly using the words “men” and “assholes”. I spin around to leave, friends in tow, but barely walk ten steps when the bouncer spins me back around, smile on his face and two roses in hand. He hands me one, saying, “Not all men are assholes.” He hands me the second rose and says, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

1997: Still mooning over Bruce. I collect the one single friend I have left, and we spend Valentine’s Day cabbing throughout the city, going to as many restaurants, clubs and pubs as we can, with the sole purpose of downing one drink per establishment, and collecting matchbooks. By the end of the night we each had two generous handfuls.

1998: My bodyguard boyfriend of three months, Jack, is away protecting the world. I open up his Valentine’s Day email and read that the first thing he’s doing to do when he gets back is propose marriage. I spend the first minute letting the happiness course through my system. I spend the next 20 with my head in the toilet, retching.

1999: In the mailbox is a card from my good friend Martin. It has, I like you, you big silly! written across the top. Good friends are good to have. Too busy with grad school applications to do anything else.

2000: My first Valentine’s with Jess. We are long distance. He puts up a website with his picture in a heart, and a few sappy paragraphs devoted to his love for me. I gush. Two days later he takes it down. Perhaps that was a sign.

2001: My second Valentine’s with Jess, and we are still long distance. He sends me an e-card. My real gift is waiting for me when I visit a few weeks later: uber sexy lingerie. I get squeamish about putting it on for the first time, as no one has ever given me uber sexy lingerie before. Jess gives me grief. Perhaps that was a sign.

2002: My third Valentine’s with Jess. We are living in Prague. I drag him out for a boat cruise on the Vltava river, a stroll the Charles Bridge, and ice cream sundaes. I foot all bills, because Jess isn’t working. Perhaps that was a sign.

2003: My fourth Valentine’s Day with Jess. We are living in my city. Excited, I go all out on a big surprise: expensive suite at a romantic inn, pampering at the adjoining first class spa, and a limo to take us there. I even have champagne for the ride. Wanting to keep this a surprise, I tell him the night before to be ready at noon the next day, and not ask questions. He flips out. No one should tell a man what to do, see. He yells, he screams, I cry. In addition, all I get in return is a card, because he’s not working. That was definitely a sign.

2004: My fifth Valentine’s Day with Jess. I remember a bouquet of flowers, bought with money borrowed off a relative. He’s still not working. I remember nothing else about that day because obviously, it was so memorable. A sign.

2005: My sixth Valentine’s Day with Jess. We are long distance again. He sends some downloaded songs to my inbox on the 15th. Signs, signs.

2006: Seventh, but not with. The night before Valentine’s Day I, in so many words, told him to drop dead. My permanent Valentine is now my dog, as Jess and I are officially done. All signs have come to pass.

La list. A few shining moments, I’ll admit, but all in all, no wonder I call it V-Day. Not V for Valentine, but for the day the Allies stormed Europe in WWII. Massacre and carnage.

But apparently not all is lost, because upcoming is 2007: Good lord, girlfriend, I’m having a Valentine’s Day with Sandy. Sandy Sandy Sandy. What would me, circa 1992 (and thereafter), have to say about this?

Back then, besides open-mouthed shock, no idea. Nowadays it’s giddy steps, childish frivolity and raw, unadulterated panic.

Valentine’s Day is coming. What on earth am I going to do?