We were concentrating on more contemporary historical matters here in Oz, but yesterday was also Darwin Day.
Share your worst Valentine’s Day stories!
Mine goes back more than 20 years, to the long-distance lover whose ardour was cooling after three years together, and who would have saved dumping me until the weekend of Valentine’s Day if I hadn’t insisted on travelling to see him the weekend beforehand (he’d been away for a while, and I was desperately missing him, more fool me). In retrospect he was baiting me to dump him for months – “oh, I couldn’t figure out what to get you for Christmas”. Coward.
The travesty about that was, that for most of the three years we’d been very happy, but I was so shrivelled by the dumping which I had not foreseen that I pretty much blanked all our time together from my memory. I still have an essentially empty three years there. I know intellectually that I was enjoying myself most of that time, but I can’t actually remember hardly any of it. Shame that a particularly passive-aggressive exercise in ending a relationship with a whimper poisoned that whole well for me, but there you go.
The worst thing: I blamed myself and hated myself for losing him for years. Which was stupid. You can’t make people stay in love with you, and young love often doesn’t survive the diverging emergence of more mature personalities. Shit happens, and eventually you get over it, even if it is all tied up with some stupid consumer holiday that sneaks up on you annually for years afterwards.
I’m happily partnered now for the last 17 years, so in some ways it’s easy for me to say that VDay shouldn’t be a big deal, but honestly: don’t make it a big deal. Don’t let the myth that feeds the consumer machine grind you down.
Image credit: “Cupid” by RBerteig