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February 12, 11:30pm
I land in Chicago,a bit bleary eyed from the flight. I text David to that I’m off the plane, figuring he’ll park right by the right exit door to pick me up.
“I’m inside,” he texts back, “over by the baggage claim exit.” This is strange. Why? Turns out Laura is flying in to meet John in Chicago for a fancy Valentine’s Day celebration, and to host her own Valentine’s Day event this weekend, and her plane just landed too. I walk out to see David holding two sleeves of cotton candy. Pink for her, multi-color for me. The man is literally too sweet. He knows I love cotton candy. And she adores cotton candy.
Off to our left, we see a chauffeur with a tablet that has her name on it, so we know we’re in the right place. She walks out rolling her carry-on, sees the chauffeur, then spots us. I think we expected a more enthusiastic response, but her face goes white. She talks to us for a few seconds, grabs her candy and walks off with her ride. David and I look at each other and shrug our shoulders.Maybe she’s completely moved on, but we’re not going to let that ruin our plans.
David takes me home and tucks me into bed. We’re both too tired for any fun tonight, butWe’re going to have a great weekend.
* * *
February 13, 10:00am
This wasn’t exactlythe plan, but kids are hanging out with us today. I thought it would just be him and me, and I figured we’d probably go and check out Laura’s event, but I don’t want to tell the kids that. They were so happy to see me and even happier to see my box of chocolates (nice little gift from Dee). I walked over to his house in the late morning figuring we’ll have some morning shower fun only to be greeted with a flurry of little hugs and smiles.
I thought they’d be with their mom this weekend, but “Mom wants her alone time.” So she dropped them off early in the morning and they are spending the day with their dad, and then getting dropped off later that evening. They didn’t make a big deal of it, so neither did I. Fair enough. She can do as she pleases. I’ve got plenty of time with him, and I’ve also go plenty of alone time. This morning did start off on a bit of an unpleasant note. “Can you come over to the kitchen?” He calls to me. I’m in the living room, watching TV with the oldest.
I walk over to the kitchen. The oldest is standing there, sheepish and starting at the floor. “What do you say,” he says, firm, but gentle.
“I broke your honey pot.” She looks at me, than starts to run away. I put my arm around her, guiding her, without grabbing her arm. I hold her close. Her eyes are red and teary. “I’m sorry.”
Today is a day of love. Supposedly. So I ought to be loving today, right?
I look her in the eyes. “It’s okay. Thank you for telling me. Can we make pancakes now?”
She fiddles back and forth. “Can they have chocolate chips?”
I guess the day turned up quickly enough.
You know what’s funny?This evening, this whole day, was so wonderfullynormal.Everything is crazy these days. It’s nice to have something this simple. It’s not boring. It’s beautiful. We’ve got this wonderful date planned at our favorite Italian restaurant. Upscale, but no so ostentatious as to bother me. The pasta is absolutely delicious and the atmosphere is cozy. That’s all I want.
There was a slight hangup when we had to stop by his ex’s house to drop off the kids. She stepped out — and saw me. She’d never seen mewithhim and kids as an equal before. As a nanny, sure. I wanted to panic, but he looked me in the eye and said, “Do you want to have a good evening, or do you want to letherinterfere?” “I want to have a nice time,” I said. “Good,” and with that he moved on to a different topic. Something of actual importance. And a thought passed across my mind,me, the more important thing he has to think about is me. As if on cue, he turns and just looks at me with a little smile. I like that smile. It’s a special one for me.
We drive away and speed over to our date. We drop the car off at the valet and chat briefly with the maitre’d. They ran out of tables for two, and since it’s us, he gives us a table for four away from the main foot traffic. I excuse myself to the bathroom to wash my hands and when I come back, David is on the phone. I can’t even be upset, because he’s on my phone.What’s going on?
It’s Laura and she’s crying. John had not only stood her up for their outing that evening, he’d decided she was “too much” for him. And dumped her. On Valentine’s Day. They were supposed to go out to a nice ritzy place and he taunted her that she’ll never get someone to take her there. What a jerk. But I am not going to allow a dear friend of mine to spend Valentine’s wallowing in self pity. I thought she was going to have a lovely romantic date to launch her big weekend. But maybe we can salvage this. David orders her to pull herself together in a tone that I’ve rarely heard from him.
“There will be a car downstairs for you in 15 minutes. Wear something cute.” It is both gentle and rough. I shudder a bit just listening to it. It’s feels protective yet I don’t think I could resist it if the command was directed at me.
David walks over to the maitre’d and asks him to bring a placement set for a third person.
“Wife and a girlfriend,” jokes maitre’d?
“More like girlfriend of a girlfriend,” answers David without skipping a beat.
“This I got to see,” says the maitre’d. “If you’re not kidding me, your dessert is on the house.”
“I guess we should get started with tiramisu,” shoots back David.
Valentine’s might bea stupid holiday that my many of my friends - oftentimes rightfully - mock and avoid. Just for couples, of course. What about group relationships? Why don’tsingle peoplehave a holiday? And, no, Black Valentine’s Day doesn’t count. The single life is presented as The Most Horrible Thing Ever. Single is a fridge filled with beer and dried out leftover pizza. It’s lying, wide eyed, at night, staring at the ceiling and clutching your Japanese body pillow.
Single life is depressing, right? Unmarried folk have benefits like getting more sleep, but didn’t you know that married people with children have that one thing—they’re happier. Single people, you can’t be happy. Even when they pretend to be luxuriating in freedom, they’re secretly miserable and pining for a baby of their own. How, the books ask, can you enjoy being single??? Let us help you! (How utterly patronizing, by the way. Nobody would tell you, “Oh, you poor thing! Eating chocolate cake? Here, let me show you how to properly eat this slice, that you might properly enjoy it.
Yet being Single does not equate to being Alone.
I have never felt alone, because I am not alone. I have always had close friendships, close relationships with my family. I don’t want a “better half.” I’m my own best half, bestwholeself. Nobody will ever “complete” me. It’s tiresome to be reminded how I must “deal” with being single, in every romantic comedy and trashy novel. In every goddamn laundry commercial.
I’d rather be like my friends who are happily single, than the friends who are unhappily attached. Of course I have unhappy single friends and happily attached friends. Still, it seems easier to move on from an unhappy life when you are single. You can pick up and move, with no more than a couple of suitcases. I’ve done it myself.
