Cupid's Curse

I am currently suffering from my annual case of post-Valentine's Day depression.  It's not easy -- let me tell you -- to be reminded on the fourteenth day of the second month of every year that you have some undiagnosed genetic inability to attract anyone even remotely normal.  Valentine's Day is the one day of the year on which every single male stalker comes out of the woodworks (I mean this literally -- one actually popped out of my bushes one year) with tenacity like you've never seen before in your life.  And once they find me (and they always do), it's followed by some grandiose attempt to make me realize why we're meant to "B 2togetha 4eva" (in conversation heart language).  My "Valentine's Day Depression" gift collection consists of a life-sized singing frog that dances to the tune of "Wild Thing," a set of antique sixteenth-century French china, a custom-designed heart shaped birthstone necklace and, best of all, an "IOU a Puppy" gift card.  (Needless to say, I never cashed in on that last one.)  These are artifacts of insanity, tangible reminders of Cupid's perennial curse on my life.

Since the onset of my post-V-Day depression is as predictable as Sarah Palin's talking points on gas pipelines, I'm well aware of both the causes and symptoms of this recurring disease: 

Causes: 

• Perpetual singlehood, exacerbated by the existence of the Lifetime Movie Network 
• The shameless persistence of past and persent stalkers 
• The 349839483 marriage proposals to which I'm somehow always privy on Valentine's Day every year (yes, they've included jumbo-trons)  

Symptoms: 

• Binge eating on cake batter
• Playing Celine Dion's "All By Myself" on repeat 
• Rapid IQ reduction by way of Nicholas Sparks novels 

When to see a doctor: 

• If you succumb to seeing "Dear John" in the movie theater (I came dangerously close) 

It's true: Valentine's Day is, for me, a recurring nightmare that only gets worse with time.  It was bad enough when the foreign kid in the ESL class, Huy Li, asked me to be his Valentine in the fourth grade.  Perhaps if I had understood Mandarin I could have avoided my escape into my now very familiar and forever unchanging world of singlehood.  And it's proven to be quite the world, let me tell you.  Just imagine overdosing on Doritos and memorizing the lines to "When Harry Met Sally" -- all while avoiding a group of stalkers whose audacity knows no bounds.  And although the toothless Safeway cashier's offer to "show me a good time" if I waited 'til his 10pm break (never mind his 18th birthday) was enticing, I think my Valentine's Day was better spent at home, eating half a dozen cupcakes while trying -- with minimal success -- to convince my mother that I am not a lesbian. 

Now, more than two weeks after the holiday of Horror, it still feels as if I'm stepping into a funeral parlor every time I walk through my door.  (Thank you, 1-800 Flowers.)  As these countless bouquets of flowers begin to die (along with my optimism for any normalcy in my life), they serve as final remnants of my Valentine's Day aversion and all the stalkers that have come to define it.  In an effort to dump the flowers and chocolate (wrappers) and singing cards and love letters, I can't help but wonder why there is not a single conversation heart devoted to those of us with love luck -- or lack thereof -- like mine.  I mean, if "Tweet Me" and "Text Me" already exist, would it really be that hard to include a "Why Me?" heart in next year's batch?  Food for thought.  Until then, I'll continue to hope:

Roses are red
Stalkers stick like glue
I'd do anything for a Valentine
Who actually has a clue.

Maybe next year on V-Day
I'll have someone new
And be rid of this curse forever 
Cupid, it's all up to you. 

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