This realization hit in late January and was initially met with some disappointment.  With my ex and I breaking up in December, it was looking more and more like I would be single for The Big Day.    I couldn’t actually remember the last time I had been single for the holiday.  I assumed this meant I would spend Valentine’s Day drowning my sorrows in a bottle of wine while watching sappy movies in ugly PJs.  I figured this scenario also involved lots of tears.  Then I read Chelsea’s #valentinesrevolution and my opinion changed.

Instead of crying all day, I decided that I would celebrate Valentine’s Day.   It would be MY day…and it would be epic.

To prepare, I began to think about what I might like to do for Valentine’s Day. My first thought was trapeze.  I had begun taking lessons at the Trapeze School New York (TSNY) in Washington DC and I loved it.   The instructors were hot, spandex was encouraged and you got to pretend you were in the circus.  It sounded like an excellent idea until I got their February newsletter:

Love is in the air.  And so are our students!
A few years ago a few of us started talking about how much fun it would be to do trapeze and some of our aerial classes with a “significant other”. That thought expanded into an idea of couples oriented classes that we could offer, of course, on Valentine’s Day. However, until this year, we were never open in February! So at long last, this Valentine’s Day, we are excited to bring those ideas to fruition and offer you some great couples-oriented classes. What a great way to try something new with your special someone!

There went that idea.  I don’t care how cool trapeze is; my Valentine’s Day was definitely not going to be spent in a couple’s class.  I went through a few more ideas, and then decided to put the actual Valentine’s Day activity brainstorming on hold.  Bring on the presents!

While you never have to get your sweetie something for Valentine’s Day (cards are another story), it’s often a nice gesture.  I decided I wanted a present for Valentine’s Day.  So I began to think about what I might like.  A new iPhone immediately came to mind, along with a satellite radio (hey, I’m a generous Valentine!).  I decided I most wanted an iPhone, so I checked my plan.  Unfortunately AT&T was also plotting against me and I wasn’t eligible for an upgrade until March.  Then I remembered the compact photo printer I saw in Best Buy last week and decided that is what I wanted for Valentine’s Day.  I bought it.  I had to exercise a great deal of restraint when I got home and did not open it.  Instead I wrapped it up (you think I’m joking…I am not).  It would be opened on Valentine’s Day.

In further preparation, I decided to make chocolate.  I made tons and tons of really cute, really delicious chocolate candies.  I packaged them up in adorable Valentine’s bags so that I could give them to all of my coworkers.  I also made Valentine’s Day cards.  I got great joy making a specially crafted card for Mr. Not-So-Wonderful …no I didn’t send it.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.  In the morning, I will wake up and take a long, hot bath (that’s right a bath, I’m weird and I like baths).

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.
–Sylvia Plath

I’ll shave, not because I have to, but because I want to.  I’ll straighten my hair and get dressed.  My usual pant and sweater combination will be exchanged for a classy skirt and top.  Today the boys at work will have a reason to stare.  I will look DASHING (yes, dashing is a terribly underappreciated word).

I will hand out my Valentine’s and I will do my job creating fabulous websites (looking so fabulous how could my work be anything but fabulous?).  I will eat a pizza lunchable for breakfast and drink all the soda I want.    After work, I will stop by the grocery store…yes the grocery store.  Don’t worry I won’t be doing any cooking.

At the grocery store I will purchase one rotisserie chicken.  My love for rotisserie chicken rivals Daisy’s in Girl Interrupted (though I promise I throw the chicken away when I’m done with it).   I will make instant mash potatoes and feast on my chicken (I will never love you more than rotisserie chicken).  I may eat the entire thing…it’s my day and there will be no one there to judge.  It is likely I will eat in fancy lingerie, because I CAN (bought for this very occasion).  Besides, I look damn good in it.

I will open a bottle of the wine I made last year, because this is a special occasion.  I will unwrap my present and eat the cheesecake bites I bought at Target.  I won’t look at the calories and I will eat as many as I want.  I will prance around the house in my sexy lingerie taking pictures and playing with my printer.

I will go to sleep satisfied.  Best of all, there will be no tears, there will be no disappointment.  This Valentine’s Day will be one for the books.  This Valentine’s Day is for me.

Taking a swig of wine, I moved away from the kitchen and over to my bedroom. I began boxing up my clothes when I saw the box. Rage built. The box was from Victoria’s Secret and had been purchased last month when I was uncharacteristically optimistic about my relationship. I was generally not into dressing up, but had decided the Sexy Santa outfit could be kind of cute. Now it just seemed silly. Perhaps I could send it back. The idea of packaging it up and mailing it back was depressing and I wondered how many overzealous girlfriends purchased Sexy Santa costumes only to be dumped before they actually got to wear them.

I continued to pack, drinking steadily as I moved through my bedroom. My anger continued to build, how had I been so naive? Stupid Christmas, stupid New Years, and stupid boys. Halfway through my second bottle of wine, I decided to repackage the costume; Victoria could have her stupid Santa costume back. I began to close up the box, and then paused, I’d never really gotten to look at it. I pulled the bag out of the box, laying it down on the floor. The hat was pretty cute…I would have made such a good Santa. I’m not sure why, but I ripped open the bag and put on the hat. What the hell, I thought and ripped open the entire outfit. I put it on and sauntered into the bathroom. Examining myself in the mirror I thought, fuck him…I am one hot Santa.

I went to the kitchen to refill my glass and saw the ice cream maker, still unpacked. Suddenly, I decided I wanted ice cream. I opened up the ice cream maker, hastily looking through the manual. Who needs to pack? I’m going to make ice cream. I tore through the half-packed kitchen box, looking for ingredients. The manual said the bowl had to be frozen before use, I ignored it. I dumped in the sugar and water. The recipe called for 2 1/4 cups of juice. I had half a cup of orange juice left, so I dumped it in. I grabbed the raspberry vodka sitting on my table; it was left over from a party at the exes. As I dumped a generous amount in, the liquid splashed up onto my Santa costume. Oh well. I found some chocolate chips in one of the boxes and dumped those in too. This was going to be the best sorbet ever. I closed the machine and turned it on, placing it in the freezer.

Thirty minutes later, I checked on it. It had semi-solidified, which I decided was good enough. All my dishes were packed, but who needs dishes? I scoured my place for a spoon, finding one in the dishwasher. I shoveled a healthy portion into my mouth scooping it out of the machine. Goopy and gross, it was not the best sorbet ever, but I didn’t care. I shoveled more into my mouth. My cat meowed and I decided he wanted ice cream. I gave him a spoonful; a gob fell onto my skirt. One spoonful after another, I ate my sorrows away, washing them down with a final glass of Cabernet. What did he know? I was a sexy, sloppy Santa that made delicious sorbet. I was a keeper.

One particularly gloomy day, we were out shopping in the vicinity of the “cancer capsules” when she decided she wanted to stop in. Reluctantly, I agreed. As we entered the salon, I was enticed by the bright lights and cheery assistant. The assistant explained that they were running a special on their new bed, 5 visits for $20. The new bed was actually an upright tanning bed, where you didn’t have to lay down. The prospect of an upright tanning bed intrigued me, as Final Destination had installed a serious fear of being caught inside a tanning bed. With my friend’s encouragement, I went ahead and bought a 5 visit package.

I was led to the back of the tanning salon, where what appeared to be a small spaceship sat in the middle of the room. I was excited. She explained that with my fair skin, I’d probably only want to go in for 5 minutes. I agreed and rather embarrassingly inquired what exactly you wear into the capsule. She laughed, saying “Nothing!” as she left the room.

I eyed the capsule carefully, and then put on my space goggles. I nervously applied a generous amount of tanning lotion, stripped down, hopped in, and pressed the button. It sounded as if the capsule was going to take off. The lights dimmed creating an otherworldly effect and fans started all around me. I closed my eyes and thought…it’s only 5 minutes.

Well, five minutes came and went and the contraption eventually turned off. I hoped out and scrambled quickly to the mirror, expecting to see a bronzed goddess. Sadly, my pale body stared back at me. I sighed; I guess that’s why you have to go five times. I quickly dressed and met my friend back in the lobby. We decided to come back in two days time.

Two days later…
We were back at the tanning salon. This time I was eager to go, I was going to have beautiful brown skin. Again, I slathered on the tanning lotion and hopped in. Once done, I eyed myself carefully in the mirror. I imagined I looked slightly darker. This was great.

One hour later…
I began to itch. Just a little bit. I didn’t think much of it, as I’m allergic to a few foods and figured it was just something I ate. I put the itching at the back of my mind and soon it was gone.

Three days later…
I was back at the salon for my third installment.

Two hours later…
I began to itch…a lot. I developed a small patch of hives on my right leg. I was irritated, but figured it was just an allergic reaction to something. Eventually the itching stopped and I went about my business.

Two days later…
Back for my fourth installment, I was beginning to see a little bit of color. The tanning assistant suggested increasing my time to 7 minutes and I agreed. I was going to be beautiful.

One hour later…
I was miserable. I began to itch everywhere. Hives began developing in all sorts of inconvenient places. I racked my head, trying to remember what I’d eaten, but nothing jumped out at me. Then it dawned on me…the capsule. This was no food allergy…I had sun poisoning!! Another hour passed and I developed a rash on a good portion of my body. Places itched that had never seen the light of day…oh but they had seen the light of the capsule…the cancer capsule! I made an emergency trip to CVS and equipped myself with aloe. The aloe offered mild relief, but it was only a few days later that I began to really feel better. It was then that I came to the conclusion that there would be no more tanning. I would be pale…pale and proud! Super Pale!!!

We are seated at a little table by the window. It has a lovely view of…the alley. I look over at my husband who is making a rather unsure face; I know immediately why….the smell. The place smells weird. Like garbage that sat out on the curb all day roasting in the sun. Trying to give the place the benefit of the doubt…we tell ourselves surely it’s just coming in from the street. The menu seems pretty normal, no red flags go up. We order drinks and appetizers. As we wait for our starters, the overhead lighting begins to dim and flicker…several times until it finally settles on a strangely bright intensity. Our appetizers arrive and apart from the awkward presentation of the plating, the appetizers are pretty good. My husband and I joke… “What would Gordon Ramsay say!?” The lights flicker again, as if they are struggling to stay on. We now begin to joke that we have a poltergeist at our table! We order our entrees, I choose a lasagna with bolognaise and my husband veal marsala. As we are waiting a light turns on from the alley and beings to illuminate the window at our table. Confused we just look at each other not sure what or who turned that light on. Were there motion sensors…in the alley? After a bit it goes off again.

Our entrees arrive, and I have to say…not what I pictured. I had imaged a rather delicate and deliberately arranged portion of lasagna gently topped with bolognaise. Not the case… placed before me was a heaping sloppy mound of who knows what, so covered in a thick sauce that ran edge to edge of the plate that I couldn’t have told you what was plopped down under it. I began picturing this fat, sloppy excuse for a saucier….standing mindlessly in the kitchen laddling sauce from a vat onto my plate as careless as one might toss down the cat’s dinner. My husband’s meal was equally unexpected. The veal and mushrooms that were supposed to be luscious and golden are dark…almost black, as if they had been reduced down in balsamic vinegar and then taken down to a thick black color. The lights again dim and flicker the poltergeist is equally offended with the meal, the alley light beams blindingly bright in the window…and turns off again…I begin imagining some sinister character in the alley…and how horrible it would be if the next time the light came on there he was standing in the window.

We try to joke that the place is fine; we just got the worst seat in the house. I reluctantly take a bite from the corner of my lasagna. It’s fine, nothing special…I manage to take another small bite or two when I notice a dark line peeking out from under the mounds of sauce. This seems odd since everything else on my plate is the thick pink color of the sloppy sauce. I think, maybe it’s a basil stem…but there is no basil in my dish. I tug it out from under the mass and it begins to take shape…this is not food. It is a thin, black circle. I carefully excavate it and begin to feel the chunks swelling up in my throat…..I lay it on the edge of the plate and I ask my husband, “Is that…is that….a rubber band?!!” Horrified, he picks it up and gently tugs each side, sure enough, it stretches. It is a rubber band….more specifically it is a hair elastic. Feeling sick and dirty, I announce that I am done. My husband agrees, he too is far too disgusted to eat anything else. Now I picture again the dirty line cook…this time with a greasy pony tail…missing a hair elastic. I feel like I may just puke right there at the table. Trying to make the best of the situation, I say “Maybe it is the rubber band from an asparagus bundle? Or a lobster claw?” my husband just looks at me…we both know that the bands off a lobster claw or asparagus are thick blue bands….this one is thin and black.

We tell the waiter, who is also horrified and wait for the check. The lights again flicker overhead and we promptly leave…feeling nauseous and a bit bruised.

Bolognese…..Italian for rubber band.

Today I ate some rage….sweet…..delicious rage.

On my way to work I received a phone call from a coworker….evidently this awful woman who left my office just a few months back was planning on returning! I was horrified. This woman was a nightmare! One day you get snappy bitch, the next day you get the most fake phony freak you can imagine. It was pretty much the office consensus that she needed to be medicated.

Then I realized…the open position that she would be taking was the cubical directly next to mine! My heart sank as I visualized the horrid bitch back and forth in my area a hundred times a day. She would no doubt stick her face in my business and voice every insignificant complaint she had directly to me, as she was in the habit of talking to anyone she could corner. This woman was so abrasive…people wouldn’t even go into the kitchen at work if she was in there…to avoid getting sucked into her mindless conversations.

The more I thought about this, the more angry I became, I was stewing in my car…getting madder and madder…I could feel the anger welling up inside my chest…I need to calm down I thought. So I stopped on the way to work to get a coffee…which in a moment of frustration and weakness….became a coffee and a donut…

I stared at the donut sitting next to me in the passenger seat of my car. Peeking out at me from its paper bag. Why did I feel so guilty for indulging? I stared at it…”stop making me feel bad donut…I am dealing with a crisis here! So in my ever so rational state of mind I decide…if I eat the donut without anyone seeing it…it’s like it never happened! Of course! I must scarf it down in my car! I greedily gobbled the glazed beauty down, praying for red lights so I could break off another scrumptious morsel…crumbs littered my lap….I did not care….

The delicious scandal was gone before I pulled in at work. No one had to know. I had ate my rage…and it was wonderful.

I’ll take my rage glazed.

I scheduled my first appointment over my lunch break. I figured I’d run up the street; get the shot, run back. Easy.

The day of the appointment, I was a little nervous. I’ve never been a big fan of shots, but for a shot that could potentially stop Aunt Flow’s visits; I figured I could suck it up. After a brief exam, the doctor said everything was fine and dandy in ladytown and administered the shot. The nurse stayed with me for a few minutes to make sure I was okay, and then gave me the paperwork to check out. I was so proud of myself, I was doing so well!

I marched up to the front desk with my paperwork and got out my checkbook. I began to write the check when all of a sudden…I wasn’t feeling so well. I felt the oh-so-familiar lightheadedness and braced myself. I was going to power through….or not.

With a solid thunk, I knocked my forehead on the counter and passed out in a crumpled mess of shame. I was only out a second, but that was enough to draw the attention of the whole office. Mortified, I scrambled to get up, unfortunately my plans were foiled by three nurses who insisted I lay down…on the floor…in the entrance to the gynecologist office…with a bag of ice on my head. I wanted to die. As people came and went, the nurses made me stay there for 10 minutes while I ‘recovered.’

To add insult to injury, I got in my car and looked into the mirror and found a sizable bruise quickly developing on my forehead. Now I had to go back to work with not only a bruised ego, but a bruised forehead. Wonderful. The bruise lasted over a week and I was teased without mercy.

Needless to say that was my first and last Depo shot.

Approximately 5 hours after ingesting the nutritious wonder I would be stricken with crippling pain, which would evolve into violent abdominal heaving….and subsequently end in projectile vomiting.

This pattern continued every day after school. My mother assumed it was nerves; after all school was a new experience. Then as time went on and it appeared that I was comfortable at school she began to suspect I was trading my healthy sensible lunches for evil junk food. I feverishly denied the accusations. Thanks mom for creating the Salem Witch Trials of sensible snacks. That’s something a five year old is equipped to deal with. Awesome.

So when it became clear that I was not lying and sneaking junk food, she came around and we made our way to the doctors for testing. After some rather uncomfortable and embarrassing probing and prodding it was discovered that I was indeed a Lactard. I was allergic to milk.

Now the term Lactard was not bestowed upon me at the tender age of five, that phrase was lovingly granted to me by my roommate in college…there was even a song, set to the tune of the TV show cops….

Lactard…Lactard……whatcha gonna do?………whatcha gonna do when milk makes you spew?

Thanks roommie I love you too.

In an attempt to better understand my condition I took a nutrition class in college and was quite pumped for the food allergy chapter. We began discussing dairy…oooh that’s me! I thought to myself. The professor asked for anyone with a dairy allergy to raise their hand….oooh me! I raised my hand….excited for some strange reason….to feel special even in a dysfunctional way. The professor asked me to describe the symptoms, and before I could even utter a word she cut me off with “its explosive isn’t it?” of course at this point everyone turns to look at me. There I sit mouth gapping open, trying to find a way to recover from the entire class thinking of me with EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA! “No…no…” I uttered…. ”I just….I just vomit…” as if that was somehow better, or made me look like less of a loser. Nice.

Lactard…Lactard……whatcha gonna do?

Who knew dessert contained unhealthy amounts of sugar, sugar which is not kind to poor helpless teeth. Sigh. That’s where it starts.

So I have this problem child tooth. That began harmlessly enough. A little temperature sensitivity, a little tenderness. Surprisingly I found myself able to ignore these symptoms, something rather remarkable when you consider my loathing of even minor discomfort. So for a while life was good. I continued to swoon over my scandalous second love dessert, and for while we were happy together. But alas all good things must come to an end.

As the symptoms became that which I could no longer ignore I finally looked up a dentist and made an apt. It was a Friday afternoon and they would be able to see me that Monday. I had a lot of anxiety over it, I hadn’t been to the dentist in a while and I knew whatever it was…it wasn’t good.

It all blew up at a movie. My husband and I were there with friends and during the show the pain begin. I don’t mean a mild throbbing. I mean serious pain..my tooth began its final protest and it was pissed off at me. Feeling like someone was cranking a vice into my jaw…the pain reverberated throughout my whole face and head, soon it became a migraine of constant pressure and throbbing feeling like my tooth was going to burst open. And at that point I wished it would I wanted to pull it out myself, I know understood how animals could chew their own legs off. I wanted that bi-o-tch out of my mouth!

We said goodbye to our friends and I promptly got into the car so I could cry. It was pathetic. I needed some release. Hopeful we drove home that the pain would subside. Of course it didn’t and its impossible to ignore, impossible to sleep or find any real comfort. Luckily my husband was able to run out and get a menagerie of items in a futile attempt to relieve this suffering. None of which seemed to help. And I had 2 more days to wait. Awesome.

Of course the tooth had become infected, which caused fever, chills, swelling; the whole enchilada. Picture this sad pathetic woman who can’t even muster the strength to get dressed or leave her apartment for an entire weekend. I lay there on the floor crying and thinking I could rip the damn thing from my gums with my bear hands.

By Sunday the swelling had formed a grape sized lump along the gum line of the problem tooth. It was hot, puffy and tender. Not good. However I didn’t care because somehow in the transition of the pressure releasing into the swollen mass the pain subsided. Downside I now had a lisp as a result of this lump…super cool right?

Finally I get to the dentist on Monday and he takes one look and is like “yea that needs a root canal” and sends me straight away to the root canal guy. So I get there, expecting to have the procedure done that day, but of course due to the infection I would have to wait. I was given antibiotics. And then the grossest thing ever. The mass evidently had to be drained. The dentist pierced it and it was full of blood and puss….in my mouth…and I could smell it….I very nearly puked all over him.

Best part is that it would fill up again! YAY! (sarcasm) and I would have to repeat the horrid process of draining it at home! Awesome. Can you imagine it…piercing a lump in the back of your gums and gently urging out the horrid concoction from within. It was literally the grossest thing I have ever had to see or do.

I finally get back into the chair for the root canal which surprisingly was not painful at all, although rather awkward. They have to insert some bizarre rubber bladder into your mouth which looks strikingly similar to a dental dam. So while having that strapped into my mouth and they have a strange metal loop placed over the bad tooth, you feel more like you’re in some torture porn than at the dentist. Though I was thankful to be done of this. Even though it cost $1000. Thank you evil tooth. Sigh.

So evidently after a root canal there is no longer blood flow to said tooth, thereby making it brittle. So a crown is in need. A crown is a procedure by which they file away the whole tooth sparing a tiny pirate peg leg protruding from the base of the gum. It is this little peg the crown can be attached to and what holds it firmly into your gums. Finally my saga is complete! Another $700 bill for the crown. In a tooth all the way in the back that you’ll never see anyway. The little fucker.

So in conclusion did I learn from my mishaps? Do I still have the lust for desserts, pastries, cakes and cookies? Yes. It really has become the forbidden fruit. Maybe I should just learn to swallow things whole and avoid the teeth entirely! Well what can you do really…I just have to be more adamant on flossing, cause momma isn’t giving up no cake!

Now 25, I had started casually playing golf a few years before, more out of necessity than real interest. My company held an annual sales meeting, where my activity options were: fishing, shooting, or…golf. One of four women asked to come to the sales meeting, I poundered my options. Fishing sounded rather boring and the fact that the boat left at 6 a.m. dropped it to the bottom of my list. Shooting was a bit more interesting and I’d been once in my life. However when I saw the list of people signed up for shooting, images of me being accidentally shot in the butt by Bob the Incompetent and Slightly Scary Salesman swam through my mind. Plus you weren’t allowed to drink on the shooting trip. This left golf.

A majority of the company was signed up for golf and I’d heard it was fairly competitive, however I did some inquiring and one of the guys told me that there were four people on each team and they played from the best ball. I figured I could handle this. To my relief, I was paired with my female co-worker and two of the more jovial salesmen. Armed with pink golf balls and a new outfit, I anxiously hit the course. Everyone made fun of my fancy golf balls, but all in all, I didn’t do badly, we even played from my ball a time or two. And to be honest, by the time we hit the 15th hole everyone was so drunk we were lucky to even hit the ball straight.

Since the sales meeting, I’ve taken to casually hitting the course with friends. I even took a free clinic lesson with my friends for Women’s Golf Month (which was in June). I’m still not exceptionally good, but I’ve found…neither are most guys. Besides, golf is really just a boy-approved excuse to buy cute outfits and one big ass purse.