How (Not) to Handle Valentine's Day

So, it's Valentine's Day. This is a day on which people everywhere - single or not - are hopelessly plagued by societal expectations.

As a single gal (Oh God I'm becoming my mother), it's easy to forget that this is not a walk in the park for those with significant others. I feel like rom com standards have raised the bar so ridiculously high that a holiday that is supposedly about celebrating the love in your life, all too frequently becomes stressful and disappointing.

Here’s my advice to anyone in a relationship: Be realistic about your Valentine’s expectations. Don’t ever say you don’t want anything unless you are 110% sure that even the smallest heart-shaped mint would put you into a tizzy of Hallmark rage, because if you say you don’t want anything, you won’t get anything.

I’ve never understood girls who pretend they’re above all that crap and then get upset when their boyfriend doesn’t somehow magically know that this is the one time he’s supposed to directly disobey her. I know there are girls who really are above it, but if you aren’t, just be honest with yourself: and with them.

PREACH.

For example, back when I was somebody's girlfriend - like waaay back - I was as considerate as could be. I always made sure my boyfriend knew exactly what was expected of him on special occasions. This included circling specific items in catalogs, having friends inundate him with “helpful suggestions,” and telling him exactly which classroom I was in at which time of the day and when precisely he should have roses – red ones only – delivered. Ahem.

Some people would call this “demanding” or “controlling” or “being kind of a bitch.” To that I say, well, he was kind of an idiot and I just didn’t want another Jamba Juice incident. (I said bring me a low-cal smoothie and HE BROUGHT ME A BREAKFAST PARFAIT. WITH OATMEAL. Disgusting.)

Incidentally, the only time I ever got one of those giant, heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, I had to leave the country the very next day and when I got back, my dad had eaten them all. 

Well anyway. I don't have a boyfriend this year, so my expectations can be blissfully low. Unless, you know, That One Guy I Keep Facebook Stalking suddenly realizes that all he's ever really wanted is a temperamental ginger to ruin the endings of books and leave Cheeto dust in his bed.

Like the cat above, that doesn't stop me from dreaming, though. I need to be prepared for future Valentine's Days, when I might conceivably have a boyfriend. And any prospective future boyfriend of mine (who I assume will read this at one point during their research) needs to know exactly how high my expectations are.

My Perfect Date
(Note how I resisted the urge to write "My Purrrrfect Date." Almost.)

It starts with him being on time, by which I mean, 15 minutes late because I am always running 15 minutes late. We get into his car (this is very important because my car is one McSomething away from being literally a dumpster on wheels) and he tells me, sheepishly, that he likes to jam out to get pumped up for a big meal. OMIGOD SO DO I! He doesn't think AC/DC is "vile, tasteless noise" and he doesn't make fun of my Bon Scott impression.

And then he takes me to my favorite restaurant.

Oh shit, chivalry is alive and well.

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm sort of joking about Applebee's...but also sort of not.

Don't think for a second I'll be ordering a salad or some other "appropriately dainty date food." I will be getting a steak, AT LEAST two appetizers, and a variety of colorful cocktails. I mean, they have mad dealz at Applebee's. This is not unreasonable. He will understand. If anything, he will wonder out loud at my discerning taste. He will not think it's weird to order shots at dinner. He's fun. 

His IQ is exactly one point below mine, which means he can keep up with me in conversation without ever posing too direct a threat to my ego. He understands LOLcat humor and knows exactly what I mean when I point to his last few fries and say, "I can has?" And of course, I CAN has. He accepts my practically pathological need to eat off everyone else's plate. 

When the bill comes, it turns out there was a rat or something in the kitchen, and so everything is on the house. This means I don't have to either make a huge fuss and insist on paying for myself OR compromise my weird "morals" by letting him pay. Everybody wins! We share a well-deserved high five. Thank you, Mr. Rat, for helping me put my independent bitch hat aside just one more day.

Next, I suppose we go to a movie. He's cool with either of my two favorite movie genres: really epic mythological warfare, and anything involving animated critters. Since "Wrath of the Titans" isn't out yet, this means he has a choice between "Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked" or "Puss in Boots." He chooses Puss in Boots. This is the future father of my children, I think proudly. During the movie, he doesn't try to hold my hand or anything annoying and uncomfortable like that. He can see that I am fixated by Puss, and he would never disturb that bond.

I mean, COME ON.

After the movie, he has made it abundantly clear that the only thing he's ever wanted is to sit on my bed and listen to me read my diaries out loud. He really wants to get to know the whole me, see. He's a good listener, which is perfect, because I'm a good talker. It doesn't really matter if we sleep together then or later, because he isn't the type of guy to play games or cast judgments. He understands that I need to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door, and that I accidentally sleep with my eyes open sometimes. This does not creep him out. He never expects breakfast, or anything else, in the morning. Bonus points if he makes me breakfast, because for the record, I fucking love breakfast. 

And so we decide to be "together," all monogamous-like, with anniversaries and nauseating nicknames and romantic weekend get-aways to Aberdeen (Star Wars Store, duh). He doesn't mind how annoying I am when I'm drinking with my friends and instead uses those nights to do the things I hate, like sitting around on a couch smoking weed with other boys and "watching sports." Eventually, we will get obnoxiously pretentious literary tattoos that match. 

We look forward to a bright, banter-filled future together, living in our Harrison Ford Mansion (this is a mansion filled with things that Harrison Ford would approve of, like gilded books, oriental carpets, and overpriced movie props), and embrace the prospect of our cats easily outnumbering our children. We will never, ever attend or host a "Wine and Cheese Night," because wine is gross and when you're with me, EVERY NIGHT IS CHEESE NIGHT.

Would Harrison Ford go to Wine and Cheese Night? No.

He'll accept that I will never like wine, or football, or carpooling. One day, he will sing and play "Believe Me, Natalie" by the Killers on his instrument of choice because COME ON it's the only song with my name in it and I THINK I DESERVE THAT JOY. We'll get drunk at old people dive bars and play Scrabble, and I might even let him beat me. And when it comes down to it, we'll agree that he should totally take my last name, because then we can both make "Everybody Loves Raymond" jokes to our heart's content.

Am I aiming too high, friends? Will I ever find my mysterious soulmate, the one who doesn't mind forever showering alone (showers are stressful enough as it is) and essentially dating a less-funny Liz Lemon? 

Well, gentlemen, the line starts here. Right after Mr. Kitty.