I’m that girl. The one that wears her heart on her sleeve, the archetypal hopeless romantic. Yet Valentine’s Day is one Hallmark holiday I absolutely abhor. I associate it with rejection, and have done ever since I was at school. As I’ve got older it’s got worse. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a hearts and roses kind of gal, but I’ve never been the recipient of such on this particular day – not in thirty-two years. As some people feel Bah! Humbug about Christmas, I feel Cupid should shove is heart-shaped arrows up his arse, sideways.
Every year while at school, the prefects would come go door-to-door to every classroom handing out anonymous cards and trinkets to the chosen. Some of the girls I was in high school with would go home with bags full of goodies. But not me. Not a single one.
In late 2014 I met someone who was in the process of getting divorced. We had fun together and I found my affection for him growing.
Then in January 2015, scarcely six weeks after his divorce was final, he tossed me aside like yesterday’s news after meeting someone a decade younger than me at a party he partnered me to. But wait! It doesn’t stop there…
A mere two weeks later, on Valentine’s Day, he asked her to marry him, and as has become the norm in this day and age, the announcement was broadcasted on Facebook. I was gutted. So was his ex-wife of almost 21 years. Both she and I have moved on, and while I can’t speak for her, the day is still one to which I attach a negative connotation, so for now, until someone changes this Misfit’s mind, I’m going to abide by these images: