Day Seven: February, Teflon Month of Love

I have not had a Valentine’s-Day-boyfriend since 1982. My freshman-year high school steady, The Earnest Piano Player who wooed me with a pretty-good version of “Moonlight Sonata” in between games of Dungeons & Dragons, sent me an FTD bouquet with one red rose, in a planter shaped like a little white teddy bear.

Let the record reflect that the saccharine planter was not why we eventually broke up. Now that I see how rare Valentine’s Day boyfriends have been, if possible I would slip on leg warmers, an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, and jump into a time machine, traveling back to 1982, and confront my 14-year-old self: “Hey Self! He is actually kinda thoughtful and sweet. Maybe you should keep him around for awhile.”

Freshman-year[oops! See author's footnote*] in college was the next boyfriend I happened to have during February. But there were no teddy bear planters from The Future Film Director. And no flowers, not even a card on Valentine’s Day . . . or Christmas . . . or my birthday. Future Film Director was also a Marxist, “and gift-giving holidays are a bourgeois conspiracy constructed by a capitalistic society.”

Translation: He was lazy, cheap, and self-centered.

After Future Film Director was fired by me, the Gods of Love (who must love Woody Allen, and therefore Future Film Director), cursed me for my hubris and turned February into The Teflon Month of Love, repelling boyfriends for that one month a year.

Living in Louisiana I had actually been fine with a cupid-free February. Besides the insane pressures of graduate school, early teaching jobs, and the distractions of friends, Mardi Gras often fell in February, or at least the Mardi Gras season began that month. February was usually festooned in tacky beads, buried in King Cakes, soaked in bourbon and beer.

Only if Mardi Gras came early, like this year, and the beads were swept up by Lent, would February begin to suck. Papers to grade, students to handle, bills from Christmas to pay, student loans, exams and the dissertation, all would become stark realities.

Eventually I moved to a Mardi-Gras-free-Georgia, and February, still Teflon-coated, became even bleaker. Mardi Gras was just another Tuesday, and, damnit, I had to go to work. While I was not exactly at Bridget-Jones-level depression, I became quite Blah! in February.

I would tell myself, “Self, wasn’t Future Film Director (kinda) right? Isn’t Valentine’s Day really just a Hallmark holiday? Isn’t it just a commercial excuse to sell over-priced roses, Jewelry from Kay, fattening chocolates, Kissy Bears, colored-condoms, schmaltzy cards, and tacky heart-shaped everything?”

Yes it is.

Except this year.

This year the clichés unraveled. His impulse and the roses were sincere and beautiful.

I had told him earlier this week what I thought of February, and he told me that maybe he could see if at least one day could be saved from the month.

It was. And maybe a few more days will be too.

[Author's note: My More-than-Sister commented on this entry that Future Film Director was actually sophomore year of college. She is correct. I had forgotten that freshman year was spent by me wallowing in angst over H.S. Senior Year Love-of-My-Life coming out of the closet. Right. Cheers. Thanks alot. But that's a future blog]