One
SORA
Why do we treat being single like a disease that needs a cure? #GoSolo.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
Valentine’s Day has snuck up on me like a porch pirate.
It’s not even February yet, but my inbox is filled with promotions for gourmet chocolate, personalized champagne flutes, and romantic weekend getaways for two. I’m in my warm bed, aka my “office,” as I scroll through email on my phone. I’ll sit here until I can work up the energy to commute to my “conference room”—the kitchen table—for my first Zoom meeting of the day. I scroll past pink hearts, feeling the usual disgust rise in me, as my brown-and-white-spotted rescue pit, Larry, lays at my feet in my modest Lakeview condo. There’s no end to the absurdity of the Valentine’s emails. Hot stone massage for two? Matching heart-print underwear? Romantic getaway in a tree pod? Just what the hell is a tree pod? I click on the promotion. Oh, a lighted tent hanging from a tree, with two pairs of adorable bare feet hanging out of it. Why is this a thing? Who wants to vacation in a piñata for bears?
I hate Valentine’s Day and the giant commercial love machine that fuels it. Of course this may—or may not—have something to do with the fact that Dan left me.
Or, technically, I left Dan.
Dan wanted to keep on having weeknight sex with me, as long as I didn’t mind he had a wife. And kids. And a house in the suburbs. I kind of did, though. I guess I’m just too hung up on the details. Can’t see the forest for the serial cheater.
I had no idea he was married, for the record. Call me naïve, but I hadn’t thought it was weird I’d never been to his place in three months of dating. I thought he might be a hoarder. Or worse, he had ten roommates. Either way, I failed to press for answers, and we just ended up hanging out at my place. We never went out on weekends, but that was because he worked Friday and Saturday, or so he told me, pursuing his dream of being a DJ by playing faded pop hits at suburban bar mitzvahs. Of course, that changed one Saturday when I decided to surprise him by showing up at Dynasty Forever Banquet Hall in the far northwestern burbs. Except there was no bar mitzvah there. No DJ. And definitely no Dan.
He’d been forced to admit his double life, and that the reason we didn’t hang on the weekends was because he coached youth league basketball.
“Are you even a DJ?” I had asked, appalled. Turns out his DJ career was a lie, too. I’d been dating a man who wasn’t only married, but whose “dream” job was to be a has-been forty-one-year-old DJ. It’s like his lies didn’t even have ambition.
I kick my feet off the edge of my bed and slip into fuzzy purple slippers, noting that the arctic tundra that is Chicago in January has already begun to freeze the condensation on the inside of my windows. I don’t want to leave the apartment. Maybe ever. I’ve already trudged down the stairs with Larry at the crack of early to let him out, so he should be good for a little while. I shuffle to the kitchen, past the jungle of houseplants perched on milk crates, telling myself that one of these days I’ll actually get real plant stands. Or hang pictures on my blank walls. Or rescue Grandma Mitsuye’s antique Japanese kimono-clad dolls from their multiple layers of tissue paper in a U-Haul box, one of a half dozen stacked in a corner and collecting dust in the guest bedroom. A room which, technically, I’ve been meaning to convert to an office, but I can’t because it’s a de facto storage closet. When Dan first saw my place, he’d asked if I just moved in. I’ve actually lived here seven years. I hate my drafty, vintage condo, but also despise putting on shoes and leaving it, which I think pretty much sums up my life’s angst.
Larry, realizing I’m heading to the kitchen, otherwise known as the Place Where His Treats Are Stored, jumps off the bed and follows me, wagging his brown and white tail. As I brew my K-Cup coffee, he leans into the back of my knee.
“Good boy,” I reassure him, bending down to give him a good scratch behind the ears, which makes him tap his left foot uncontrollably against my wooden kitchen floor. I hand him a bit of dog jerky, but it takes him a couple of tries to grab it. Larry, bless him, only has one working eye, thanks to a terrible run-in with a raccoon. The people at the shelter I adopted him from told me he would eventually adapt to the loss of the eye, but it’s been three years and he hasn’t managed to yet. The big brown circle around his forever-closed eye seems like a natural eye patch. I watch him now as he dips his head just to the left of his water bowl near the refrigerator. Kind of adorably pitiful. I nudge it toward him with my foot, and he laps up the tap water with gusto.
I carry my steaming cup of coffee to my kitchen table, where I sit and boot up my ailing laptop. “Come on, Bessie. Let’s go, girl,” I tell it as if I’m talking to an ox pulling my Conestoga wagon across the plains. I get up and wander around the kitchen while my laptop wheezes and flickers to life. I sip at the sweet vanilla goodness of K-Cup coffee as I sink into my kitchen table chair. The floor is uneven, so I have to move the chair around until it doesn’t wobble too much. There’s also a draft coming in from the kitchen window to my left, a cold ribbon of air across my ankles. I hate my “conference room” and long for the plush comfort of my “office” duvet. My laptop blinks on, and more Valentine’s ads assault me. Framed heart maps of the stars in the sky on your first date! Zodiac love signs engraved in matching bangle bracelets! Chocolate-covered strawberries during your intimate massage for two!
I groan, bitter. I want to boycott Valentine’s Day. Hell, I want to boycott love in general.
I start typing.
Does Valentine’s Day make you want to vomit? Do you wonder why you don’t have someone to share matching underwear with? Or who will hang from a tree pod with you so that you both become a perfectly pre-packaged dinner for grizzly bears? You’re not alone.
I’m done with the commercial love machine. For me, I’m tired of dating. Of being disappointed. So, this year, I’m vowing to stay single for the entire month of February. That’s right. No amount of chocolate can convince me being in a relationship that will only end up disappointing me is worth it. This year, we should all go on a dating cleanse. Goodbye, Dry January.
Hello, Solo February.
No dates. No dating apps. No sex.
But how will we live without romance, you ask? Frankly, the real question is how do we all live WITH romance? The stress of it? The anxiety? The inevitable soul-crushing disappointment?
Answer me this: If love’s so great, then how come I’ve got so many exes?
So, I’m going to focus on the things I love: watching dumb reality TV. Drinking sweet, fruity cocktails. Eating all the bacon I want without judgment—and without having to share! Hell, this year, I’m going to ask bacon to be my valentine.
Think of all the things I can do with my life if I don’t care what a potential date might think. I can wear my comfy, stained sweatpants to the bar because I won’t care about ruining my one chance of finding love during happy hour! I won’t have to get waxed. Or manicured. Or buy new date outfits. Or new shapewear to wear under said new date outfits. Or go on a diet to fit INTO said shapewear.
Think of all the hours I’ll save not swiping on anyone. Or not thinking about which dating app photos make me look too thirsty.
And, best of all, if an ex pops up with a “u up?” request, I have a built-in answer:
“Sorry! I’m not up. For the entire month. It’s Solo February.”
If my mom, or grandparents, or sibling, or coworker asks if I’m dating anyone, I can say, “Nope! Solo February!”
The thing is, I don’t want to give up on love and sex for my whole life. But I just need a break.
So, won’t you all join me?
#GoSolo
Copyright © 2023 by Cara Tanamachi
Sign up for the You Had Me at HEA newsletter!
