Theoretically, as a single lady on a day only partially about true love, I should be miserable.
Dropping to my knees, I could be cursing the high heavens that it is just another day without a significant other who will love me back.
No Morgan M. Morgansen will take me out to dinner; no night with destiny awaits.
I could bemoan the essence of every flower that tickled my nose or every morsel of chocolate that crossed my lips.
No trees will display a carved heart with my initials.
In an empty, resentful bed, I could covet or lament the moans from my neighbor’s bed that burgles their way into my loneliness.
Why leave all that bitterness and jadedness for one day out of the year?
I do not need one date to dictate my demeanor.
I could be miserable year round, though misery is not a friend whose company I enjoy nor seek in my life.
So, I abstain.
Today is my Sunday.
It is the second day of my weekend.
I will not find darkness in another pit formed in my stomach; I will nurse the memory of last night’s revelry back to neutrality.
Today I will bloom, dig, fold, knead, rest, steam, loaf, and then indulge.
Today is still my life, and I will do with it as I please.
(I choose to hit record.)
Created: Feb 14, 2010Document Media