Love is...

Yup. It’s that abhorrent time of year again. As if February in the northern hemisphere isn’t bad enough already, cue a Pinterest account awash with pink, pictures of cupcakes carved into hearts, and strawberries cut to resemble roses before being arranged into bouquets of fake promises and false hope. Bitter? Moi?? Surely not.

I’m normally prepared for Valentine’s. Concurrently stoic and optimistic for the future. But this year I’ve been battered, sucker punched from every angle, to the point where I’m considering if there’s a conspiracy. My positivity has been positively pulverised. The fairy tale I cling onto with my fingernails has relinquished my grasp and taken up residence in a gin house.

It must have been about the 1st of February when the apps on my phone began to automatically update themselves. What was once a simple solitaire card game, is now a constant reminder that I’m old and alone. Every card has been adorned with a sickly sweet pink heart. Not content with that, little hearts now float from the bottom to the top of the screen, popping and fading as they go. Thanks for the metaphor. You’d think the cookies they build in would alert the programmers to the fact that as I spend my evenings playing the stupid game, I’m unlikely to be loved up and appreciative of the unrequested update… The card game is called Solitaire after all.

That was just the beginning. There’s nothing wrong with Facebook’s spyware. They are incredibly aware of my single status, and consequently have decided that I regularly need to receive a sponsored ad asking for singles to apply for a new TV show about past relationships. Single people dissecting past relationships on TV. Sounds like carnage. It’ll probably make for excellent viewing. But why now? Why this month, Facebook? Can’t you show a little more tact?

And Facebook doesn’t stop there. It gets personal. With decidedly brutal timing, the site has decided to refresh my list of ‘People You May Know’ to include a handful of men I dated 18 months ago. You can’t make this stuff up. They’ve never showed up before, but I guess I have their numbers in my phone still (you know, just in case my desperation reaches new lows), and with all the genius of modern technology, now is the time social media has decided to ask if I want to be friends with men who have already rejected me, and who are now boasting profile pictures of themselves stapled to the women they’ve since decided were better options. Excellent. Thanks.

A particularly ironic kicker came on February 11th. A wedding company followed me on twitter. Yup, a wedding company. There’s only so much eye rolling I can do before causing myself an injury. I’m confident that there’s not much I offer on twitter that is of any interest to a wedding service. So perhaps they think there’s something they can offer me? Fools.

Beaten and bruised, I stopped using my phone, and limped begrudgingly towards the day itself. I left the house early in the morning to catch up with a girlfriend. There was chatting, gossip, laughter. The day may not be so bad after all… Upon my return home, I discover the mailman has been. And, resting upside down on the mat is a card, clearly in a high quality envelope. I cannot tell you the last time I received a Valentine’s card in the post. I’m not sure I have ever received a Valentine’s Card in the post. But it is Valentine’s Day, and there is a card, addressed to me, in my hand. A well-meaning postal office worker has stamped it with pink curly lettering: Happy Valentine’s Day!

Turned out to be an invite for my cousin’s wedding in August. Well played universe, well played. Is 2pm too early to start drinking?

Forgive me for not spending the rest of the day baking and sculpting strawberry roses, but rather hiding under a blanket, drinking gin with my bedraggled fairy tale, and playing Solitaire… obviously.