what valentine's day can do for me

If you appreciate or are interested in feminist rampages, read my below post from earlier in the day. If you have been warned away from it, don't read the below post (this particular one is safe, so you can keep reading). But be aware: If you find Emily Dickenson in the title of a blog, it probably means I'm angry.

Now. All things being said, I think that I have come a long way since college as far as hating the male gender is concerned. I hate society's allowing men to be the worst, most perverse, most disrepectful, laziest pigs they can think of being (think of your stereotypical college guy...stereotypes, as I saw last Thursday at Legends, come from somewhere), but most guys I can deal with and am even learning to like (with ease!), because they tend to be much better than their stereotype. This corresponds with getting out of Grove City and with a renewed respect for my father. Interesting. Much as we may hate it, sisters in combat, our fathers' influence in our lives is profound, as is a mother's influence on her sons. And so on.

Anyway. My Valentine's Day turns out to be, on the surface, much like one would expect on a Valentine's Day: A care package from my mother and a date. Naturally under the surface the reality is nothing like the appearance. The care package from Mom didn't arrive till late in the afternoon, almost five, but it throws a spot of color backward on the whole day. A deep pink color, to be exact; she knitted me a darling, super-cool eyelash scarf that I can't wait to wear with my jacket to work tomorrow.

The date was a lunch date. The guy my Gymboree coworker has been trying to set me up with since December called me last night, and we ended up on the phone for three hours, which struck me as rather odd. I mean, I can chatter with the best of them, but this gent did most of the talking. When Marianne came home from a birthday gathering for one of her colleagues, I started throwing markers into the living room and she obliged by yelling for me to get off the phone. So I arranged to meet the guy for lunch the next day (today) and only realized after I hung up that I had unintentionally weasled a date out of a complete stranger on Valentine's Day.

Cool.

So it was a good time. A rather bland, good time. I don't really see him as the churchgoing type, which is a strike against him, and I get rabbity and scared when it comes to unimagined feats like kissing, which is probably a strike against me although for my own part I don't regret it. But he was a gentleman and opened the car door for me and picked up the tab (although I took care of most of the tip because our waiter was AWESOME), and we talked for awhile, swapping high school and college stories, and he took me back home. Then I spent the rest of Valentine's Day grocery shopping, purchasing port, and cooking.

So I got a date and a meal out of Valentine's Day, which is a point for me against Cupid. I realized, in my beloved ten-year-old beat up old Earl of a van, gathering all my Wal-Mart bags together to lug them upstairs, that I'm generally happy with being single. I haven't even been depressed today. (Oh sure, because you had a date, you say. No, really. I haven't even been depressed today.) I bought Queen Latifah's new album, remakes of blues and soul classics, which are amazing because she is amazing, and revelled in my singleness.

Basically the deal is this: Because I am awkward when it comes to the physical aspect of a guy-girl dating relationship, it's going to take one amazing, (possibly) experienced but (at least) patient guy to deal with it. Probably someone I've known for awhile before we start dating. That's the way I've always wanted to do it anyhow. And since it's going to take time, and since I have time, I'm fine with it. I have good friends and a great family and a fun roommate who makes sure I don't turn into a boring old lady before my time. I'm in no real hurry.

Although sometimes it would be nice to have an inkling of what I'm to expect. In the meantime, I have work and books and (hopefully, oh please Father) school to concentrate on. And friends to make.