I start my V-Day marathon with Once Upon a Time because, like Storybrooke, my world is a magical place. The power of love will always prevail, and my Charming will ride in on a valiant steed to save the day. My life is basically one big fairy tale, and I'm headed for happily ever after.
When my phone chimes for the 30th time with a "Happy Valentine's!" viral marketing email, I give up on thinking someone dreamy is going to send me a heartfelt message and consider carb loading instead. Thus far, the day has yielded a chain letter from my mom (I'm doomed to spend eternity alone because I refuse to send that text rose to 100 people) and a 15 percent off coupon for 3/4-sleeve cardis from the Gap. I queue up New Girl so I can pretend I'm hopelessly adorable when I'm angry, too.
So I don't have any soft pretzels, my brother refuses to swing by the pretzel kiosk in the mall and bring me one, and Nick from New Girl reminds me of my slacker ex, who was supercute but could never really commit to anything other than GameFly.com, and oh wow... I'm spiraling. I curb the urge to text said slacker ex by delving into Grey's Anatomy — a few episodes of near-death experiences, sex in the on-call room and an inexplicably shallow dating pool will put things into perspective.
Yep, I bought them for myself. In my defense, they're the artisanal kind and they were half off at Trader Joe's. Full disclaimer: I kinda wish I'd bought two. I think it's time to turn on Girls. If anyone can make me feel less embarrassed about my plight, it's Hannah and the gang.
Let's just hope it distracts me enough to keep me from going all Marnie on the slice of cake still in the fridge from my cousin's wedding two weeks ago.
What? Like you haven't done it before? I'm watching Big Bang Theory, which has smart people. Which makes it educational. So by proxy, I'm enriching my life, people. Plus, it makes me feel nostalgic — learning in PJs feels a lot like my freshman year of college.
Ouch. That one stung. But at least I didn't send myself flowers. I'm not that desperate. Yes, I know I bought myself chocolates. Can we move past that? Did you know that 15 percent of women send themselves a bouquet on V Day? While I'm riding the high of realizing I'm not a statistic (yet), now would be a good time to cue up Mad Men and take heart that I'm not trapped behind a desk at a patriarchal advertising agency in the '60s where I'm constantly objectified and/or discredited entirely.
Who needs a man when you've got Manolos? I may have maxed out my credit card, but it was totally worth it — these babies were a steal. I fight off the urge to share my latest purchase with the Facebook world, knowing my dad will write something terribly embarrassing on my wall about being fiscally responsible because he can't figure out how to direct message. Enter Sex and the City. Carrie Bradshaw would never shoe shame me.
Let's talk about some ground rules. This is a no-judgment zone. Nothing I say here can be held against me in a court of law or through stories you'll tell during a mildly mortifying toast at my wedding one day. I don't want my future spouse to hear that once, while watching Cougar Town, I proclaimed myself an honorary member of "The Purple Tooth Crew," named my wine glass Guillermo and proceeded to binge on the show and the libation.
Sure, it's still daylight out. And, yes, I'm well into my bottle of wine. Such is the joy of being home alone on Valentine's Day — I can do whatever I want. Right now, that includes soaking in some bubbles and pining over Josh Duhamel in Safe Haven. You can never go wrong with Josh Duhamel. Bonus? I can totally pretend these tears are just a byproduct of bathing.
Luckily, the box of chocolates I inhaled earlier (OK, OK, and half a piece of two-week-old wedding cake) means I'm not that hungry anyway. And it could be worse. I could be in prison, like the inmates in Orange Is the New Black, where the food is slop to start with and — if you piss off Red — you could be "starved out."
I didn't really want to pay, like, $12 for the grown-up version of a Shirley Temple anyway. By staying in and watching Gossip Girl, I get to pretend like I'm glamorous and perfectly coiffed like Blair and Serena. I'll go to sleep with visions of Marc Jacobs bags dancing in my head. And I can channel my romantic angst toward that a-hole Chuck Bass (would that make him a Basshole?) circa the early seasons.
Because being this fabulous (and riding the roller coaster that is my emotions on this holiday) is exhausting. But, hey, there's nothing like a little black-and-white movie magic to help me drift off to dreamland. Breakfast at Tiffany's is perfect, because it's a gentle reminder that nobody — not even superchic divas like Holly Golightly — have it all together. Note to self, though: If you're going to be a mess, at least be a hot mess. Next year, maybe I'll shower before noon.
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