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Hallmark arrived in my hometown of Calcutta, India, around the time I turned 14. On Valentine's Day, I waited in line with hordes of other teenagers just for a chance to get into the store. I remember wishing two things. One: That I wasn't the only person there with her mother. Two: That the cute boy whom I could see through the store window was skimming through the aisles picking out a gift for me. It was such a scene -- the hundreds of greeting cards with messages of love and romance, guys in their school uniforms looking uncomfortable as they tried to pick the perfect stuffed animal for their girlfriends, many of whom were beside them giving them not-so-subtle hints. I wanted so desperately to be a part of this. Unfortunately, Valentine's Day passed and I received nothing but a lecture from my father on how Western capitalism was ruining our culture.
The next Valentine's Day, I still didn't have a boyfriend, but I did receive a greeting card from a secret admirer. It would have been flattering, except the card featured a picture of an office desk with neatly arranged paper clips and pens. I can't remember what it said inside the card, but it hardly mattered. While other women inspire candlelit dinners and marriage proposals, some guy felt the need to tell me that I was as exciting as office supplies.
Not to say that all my Valentine's Days have been dull. I had a particularly memorable one the year I was dating, long-distance, a guy who lived in England. I had been waiting all day for him to surprise me. I had thought up several scenarios, from him flying in to Calcutta just for the day, to receiving a mysterious, unmarked brown box covered with U.K. postage stamps. I checked the mailbox every hour and would look up expectantly each time our doorbell rang. Instead, I stumbled upon an e-mail that evening detailing his "intensely passionate" day with another woman. What followed was a post-Valentine Day pity party like no other -- I stayed in bed for days, and called my friends at odd hours of the night to cry without even saying hello.
I know I'm not the only one who's had the single-gal blues. Anyone who's been alone on Valentine's Day can understand what it feels like to want to stick your head under a comforter and eat Starbucks Java Chip ice cream until you swallow a fork prong thinking it's a coffee chip, and then laugh and cry alternately because this might be your lowest point yet. It isn't. That comes when your coupled friends call to try to cheer you up. If I have to hear one more sympathetic voice telling me, "Come out with us -- don't stay alone. Of course, you won't be a third wheel," I'll eat another fork prong.
One of my closest friends, with whom I shared years of singles solidarity, finally found the love of her life. When Valentine's Day came, she snuck away on a romantic weekend to Kansas City without telling me. When I confronted her, she admitted that she didn't want to rub it in ("Because Kansas City really is the stuff of every woman's fantasy?" I felt like saying). But she knew that there's nothing I like better than spontaneous trips, because I've talked about it for years. On my ideal Valentine's Day, I would wake up to find my bags packed as my boyfriend surprises me with a weekend in Rome. It sank in, and I apologized to my friend. I realized that I was carrying a chip on my single shoulder. No one should have to hide the joy of being in love, just because I'm not in a relationship.
It's not just Valentine's Day when I'm reminded of these feelings. One night, my friend and I were at the subway station in New York City waiting for the local to arrive. The station was mostly full of college students and twentysomethings, when an older couple dressed to the nines walked in. As if on cue, a street musician started playing the Billy Joel ballad "She's Only a Woman to Me." The couple began waltzing around the station, laughing and lost in their own world. Because this is New York, a city where strangers are apt to do strange things, I hardly batted an eye as I stood back and watched the show. But on the train, I found myself reminiscing about the time I was with a date at the subway station, when he spontaneously picked me up in his arms and twirled me around like a ballerina.
My view of romance has changed from when I was 14 in Calcutta to now, 23 and living in Manhattan. You'd never catch a New York man waiting in line for hours outside a Hallmark store to pick out the perfect Valentine's Day card. At the same time, a simple spin on the subway with the right guy can create memories that beat anything you can dream up.
This year, I won't pin all my romantic expectations on one particular day on the calendar. I'll spend Valentine's Day with friends in New York City. Some say that this is the worst place to be if you don't want romance thrown in your face: horse and buggy rides through Central Park cuddled under a shared blanket, fancy dinners at the Plaza Hotel, street vendors selling red roses to the lovers who pass by. But I won't try to hide under a comforter or switch off my cell phone. Instead, I'll help my coupled-up friends pack for their weekend trips to Rome.
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