A Dozen Nachos
Much like everything in a red box in the Duane Reade seasonal aisle, interest in Valentine’s day is reduced up to 80% by the fifteenth. It’s a good day to take advantage of a convenient reverse commute of interest if you want to quietly tell a love story.
Three-quarters of the reason I’ve avoided writing anything for months is that the language I developed for myself in this here spot poorly describes my current life. I have given it shot, bridging the gap between what I used to write about and the things that have happened in the interim, but all I’ve got to show for it are a few saved drafts that use terrible and long-winded metaphors (pie crust, for example, and how its perceived difficulty kept me from trying to make it for a long time but actually I perfected it over the summer and I learned all these lessons and now we are treading dangerously close to the borders of Elizabeth Gilbertonia and also I am yawning right now and confused). There are plenty of ways I can talk about stupid dudes, funny dudes, dudes I talked to one time, dudes I remember having crushes on in high school, dudes who are friends, even dudes I used to commute with, but I haven’t yet got gotten the hang of writing about (spoiler alert) having a boyfriend.
I’ve done nothing in my love life traditionally or well thus far. Wait until you’re 25 to even speak to a straight guy; have a long and scandalous affair with Jack Daniels and a series of his flesh and blood buddies; turn to the internet; have your first relationship at 27: I know, stop rehashing the plot of EVERY Nora Roberts novel, right? Regardless of the Family Circus-patented wacky Jeffy path I took from point A to point B, I celebrated Valentine’s Day last night with my boyfriend. Again, because it would be almost disingenuous to do Valentine’s the Valentine’s way (criminally expensive dinner, tights with no runs, pretending I like wine, gifts) and I have done nothing normally thus far, we ordered a pornographic amount of Mexican takeout, watched Ken Jennings play Watson on Jeopardy, and ate an entire Whole Foods chocolate ganache cake out of the container. I made Sam a Valentine using a photocopier and an anatomy textbook. I got the serious stinkeye from an old broad reading a Jesus book on the train who, I think, incorrectly took my short hair and nose ring as proof that the “Sam” on the front of the card was short for “Samantha.”
I got to work really early this morning to do some prep work for a meeting and got into a conversation with a visiting colleague about an impressive flower arrangement on a co-worker’s desk. She got them delivered yesterday and they are seriously beautiful. It wasn’t until then that I remembered I’d grabbed a couple of the flowers from the bouquet Sam got me and stuffed them in my bag before I left for work. In theory, my Dixie cup of purse-mangled droopers can’t hold a candle to her dozen roses, but why hold a candle at all when I’ve finally gotten a lamp?