V-D Recap

19 of us, single or coupled, celebrated Valentine's Day with a potluck at my place. It must have been a success, because many people didn't leave till midnight. For the photos of the gathering, click on the image of me serving green bean casserole to Helena.

And now, for a post-Valentine's Day manifesto!

I like being single.

For all my protestations of loneliness, my despairing tears over never-ending strings of failed dating, it can be rather nice. For my friends who ask "how's your love life?", I always have a story ready: about accidentally dating a married guy, or about the highly inappropriate valentine I got this year from a guy I'd gone out with three times. "Happy Valentine's Day!" it read. "You should DO
something..." and inside: "I'M something!" While these are not enjoyable experiences at the time, they provide some droll amusement to my cynical friends' lives. (Mostly because you can live vicariously, sans any personal emotional turmoil.)

So it's for you, dear friends, that I remain single. And also because I love a good tale. I recently explained to a girlfriend that I had a moment of decision when I got the chance to have my first kiss. "I could wait to kiss someone back home...or I could kiss this random German guy in a nightclub in Brazil." We all know what I went with; over the years it's provided much amusement in its relation. See? You're amused.

To have stories to tell: this is why I let a foot fetishist hold my feet on the sidewalk the summer I lived in Boystown. Or during my online dating experiment when I went out with a guy whose personal ad was about Battlestar Galactica, or the other one who was getting his PhD
from the University of Chicago in "the anthropology of love."

Sometimes this predeliction comes back to haunt me: while at a going-away party for an Italian acquaintance, Pier, I was talked into letting him show me what a 'limonare' is. A week later, our mutual friend Paolo emailed a link to the video from the evening. The title: "Pier's last kiss in Chicago." Nine minutes of asking every girl at the party if they'd kissed Pier, with the finale being a photo of me experiencing my first 'limonare.' Music plays...it zooms in on our
lip-lock...and fades to black with something along the lines of "please send details and more photos of Pier's lovers to Paolo." The best - or worst - part? The video is prominently linked from a website for a party Paolo is organizing, one that will be attended by hundreds of people. Great. Just great. (And a fun story. Pier teased me we'll get royalties.)

But it is great, in a way, that I have the freedom to do this. The past couple of weeks I was presented with the choice of having an instant boyfriend. For all the dating I do, this is a rare position for me, since usually the guy either drops off the face of the earth or goes back to Australia. Or moves to Zambia. Wherever -- provided it's not Chicago. The guy was cute, nice, and moving back to Scotland in 8 months, which normally would have been the perfect combination. (Fear of commitment? moi?) But something about being tied down made me freak out. It wasn't just that the Scotsman was wrong for me in many ways (see inappropriate valentine, above): it was also that I don't like feeling guilty for flirting with new acquaintances or kissing my friends goodbye. Or going on dates with other guys--yeah, that would probably not fly were I in a relationship.

This is betraying my inner insecurities and immaturity, but I don't care. I would rather have an endless series of tearful, regretful journal entries than to lose my ability to have something to tell. Who wants to hear about the humdrum existence of coupledom when they can instead witness the inevitable trainwreck that occurs when attempting to date your crush from freshman year of college? Exactly. It might be pathetic (or masochistic), but I find in this whole 'eternally single' thing a certain irrepressible excitement.

Stay tuned for more comically tragic tales.