Let’s talk about last night, shall we? I was in a very chic and modern apartment with my friends, dressed head to toe in black and Jimmy Choo, having wine while waiting for dinner and celebrating Valentine’s Day for the first time in a decade. I usually mourn Valentine’s Day. I’ve been dumped, in and around the holiday more times than I care to admit. So when an opportunity presents itself to actually celebrate this holiday (see: piñata, cupid) I jump at the opportunity.
And there we were, at my behest, celebrating, laughing and generally enjoying each others company. Six of us, all single save one recently deliriously coupled friend, banding together to treat ourselves well on this day dedicated to eradicating us from memory. Restaurant memory, that is. I proposed drinks; Rob suggested dinner and then Bunny agreed to host a dinner party at his house. It was of so sophisticated and the best Valentine’s Day on record. Excepting the first one here in Dublin, where I knew absolutely no one and was therefore exempted from the usual pressures. And the one where I escaped to Seattle with Julia and pointed at obvious things for the camera while my lame-ass boyfriend decided if he had the balls required to formulate a life with me. He didn’t and I cherish those photos with Julia. Then again, I cherish Julia above a lot of the men I’ve called my boyfriend over the years.
So there we were, single, unable to coerce a date without guilt trips or bribery, facing that most dreaded of retributions: Valentine’s Day, where ‘those who have not’ become ‘those who have not’ with spotlights. So we rebelled. There was champagne and chocolates and wine and one seriously delectable meal. Because we could. Because we deserve it and are worthy of such things. We listened to sappy love songs and talked about Tracey’s upcoming trip to New Zealand. We laughed about old lovers that didn’t deserve us. We toasted to the Year of Good Boyfriends and abundance of quality men in our lives. We figured out how to work the timer on Rob’s camera. Well, just after that one shot of my butt as I ran into the frame. (slightly less than sophisticated) We all struck supermodel poses for the camera while wearing a leopard print headband. We celebrated an upcoming job interview for a much better position. We oohed and ahhed over the roast chicken Bunny made and the carrot cake that Rob spent Tuesday night making for us. We made plans for a trip in April and laughed about the thought of all of us descending upon a little hometown, tearing it up for the weekend, sending Tracey off in style, which means hung-over in Ireland. We toasted to the beginning of a yearly ritual on this day and then we spilled out into the night, proclaiming this to be the best Valentine’s Day ever. Because it was.
And there we were, at my behest, celebrating, laughing and generally enjoying each others company. Six of us, all single save one recently deliriously coupled friend, banding together to treat ourselves well on this day dedicated to eradicating us from memory. Restaurant memory, that is. I proposed drinks; Rob suggested dinner and then Bunny agreed to host a dinner party at his house. It was of so sophisticated and the best Valentine’s Day on record. Excepting the first one here in Dublin, where I knew absolutely no one and was therefore exempted from the usual pressures. And the one where I escaped to Seattle with Julia and pointed at obvious things for the camera while my lame-ass boyfriend decided if he had the balls required to formulate a life with me. He didn’t and I cherish those photos with Julia. Then again, I cherish Julia above a lot of the men I’ve called my boyfriend over the years.
So there we were, single, unable to coerce a date without guilt trips or bribery, facing that most dreaded of retributions: Valentine’s Day, where ‘those who have not’ become ‘those who have not’ with spotlights. So we rebelled. There was champagne and chocolates and wine and one seriously delectable meal. Because we could. Because we deserve it and are worthy of such things. We listened to sappy love songs and talked about Tracey’s upcoming trip to New Zealand. We laughed about old lovers that didn’t deserve us. We toasted to the Year of Good Boyfriends and abundance of quality men in our lives. We figured out how to work the timer on Rob’s camera. Well, just after that one shot of my butt as I ran into the frame. (slightly less than sophisticated) We all struck supermodel poses for the camera while wearing a leopard print headband. We celebrated an upcoming job interview for a much better position. We oohed and ahhed over the roast chicken Bunny made and the carrot cake that Rob spent Tuesday night making for us. We made plans for a trip in April and laughed about the thought of all of us descending upon a little hometown, tearing it up for the weekend, sending Tracey off in style, which means hung-over in Ireland. We toasted to the beginning of a yearly ritual on this day and then we spilled out into the night, proclaiming this to be the best Valentine’s Day ever. Because it was.
1 comment:
when you gonna post a pic of those jimmy choos?!
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