One more Valentine’s Day in the books. It’s not a big day for me. I am, after all, a cynical romantic. I am happy for all those who want to celebrate, and should, but it’s just not for me. As George & Ira Gershwin told us:
Never tell me dreams come true
Just try it, and I’ll start a riot
Beatrice Fairfax, don’t you dare
Ever tell me he will care
I’m certain, It’s the final curtain
Who tell you fate supplies a mate, it’s all bananas
A lucky star’s above, but not for me
With love to lead the way
I found more skies of gray
Than any Russian play could guarantee
Hi-ho, alas, and also lack-a-day
Although I can’t dismiss
The memory of his kiss
I guess he’s not for me
The memory of his kiss
I guess he’s not for me
I always feel like I was born a few decades late, given my love for big band music, broadway musicals, the elaborate 1950s movie musicals, and of course, Gershwin.
I have always been cursed (or lucky?) to be single on Valentine’s Day, mostly because I am terrible at long-term relationships. The one time I was dating someone on that day, I was on the verge of breaking up with him because he had cheated on me several months before, but we lived together (out of financial necessity), which of course complicated things. He went out of his way to be romantic for that Valentine’s Day (our first together), but it felt empty, like he was trying too hard to make up for his past mistakes.
So yes, Valentine’s Day is tainted for me. But that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be celebrated by those who still believe in love for themselves. I still believe in love, especially when I see stories like this, and want to hear more love stories, but not for me.
Sravanthi Meka 