Sail on Silver Girl

It’s my first valentines day in…maybe ever without something to anticipate. I went straight from the basket stapled to the wall for elementary cardboard valentines to a steady string of boyfriends or potential boyfriends.

At first, this year didn’t feel any different. I walked through Target on Saturday feeling the same way I do there every February: it’s perfect. All things pink and red and glittery and everything is target-cute but better because they're stamped and printed with hearts.

And I felt some mix of satisfaction and frustration around not being able to remember valentine’s day last year. No memory. Blank.

And then, last night, the ending of Grey’s Anatomy kicked my ass. Meredith tells McDreamy she can’t remember the last time they kissed. He starts to walk away and then he comes back with a monologue about what day of the week it was (Thursday) and where (her kitchen) and what she was doing (reading the paper) and wearing (a tee shirt with a hole in the back of the neck) and what her hair smelled like (lavender) and it sent me spinning. Why can’t I remember last valentines day? He was my husband and I loved him and how did this happen?

This morning I remembered. It was a Monday. I was sitting in the red carpet club at o’hare waiting to board a flight to brazil and I had a cartoon e-valentine from scott in my inbox. It was a candy heart that said: “First Love” and a message that said “It’s never as good as the first time.” I deleted it and called L to say goodbye one more time before boarding. He said I’m so glad you’re my valentine and that he’d bought me something on his way home from work.

When I got home a few nights later I opened my valentine’s gift. It was from the clearance rack at victoria’s secret. A short silky red and black thing clearly borne for someone with longer legs and a bigger chest than me. someone with huge boobs and a maxim spread. Someone he’d look at online. what I remember is how it itched where the lace dug in and how it was mesh at the sides, held together with a tattered, bent heart. How cheap it looked and felt.
And how I tried to concentrate on the gesture. He thinks I’m sexy. Doesn’t that make me lucky?

This year I’ll go to bed by myself. I’ll fall asleep comfortable and unselfconscious, feeling so much better in the so-soft cotton tee shirt I sleep in now, thankful that I won’t wake up feeling slinky and gross with marks on my back from the cheap diggy lace.