I Stood You Up On Valentine’s Day
Your calls? Ignored. Your texts? Deleted.
I hid in my cubicle at the Los Angeles radio station where I worked; waiting for the hallmark holiday to melt into morning.
And I made myself at home: stretching my feet across my desk, sipping day-old Coke, braiding and re-braiding my auburn curls into extinction. The only things left in the vending machine were stale mints. I ate four packets. I could be eating pistachio-crusted cod and chocolate mousse at some fancy restaurant, I thought.
I imagined you at my front door waiting for me. Perhaps you rented a limo and wore a suit. Maybe you made a reservation at a hotspot frequented by celebrities.
This wasn’t my plan: To “ghost” you in the most asshole way possible. But I was insecure and in my early twenties. And when it came time to leave work, well, I just couldn’t. My legs turned to bricks. Something in me screamed: “No more.” I watched one hour zoom by. Then another.
When I was with you, I was a pile of play dough. Hiding from you was the only way I knew how to actually quit you.
A week before, you stared at me while we were having sex. Your eyes slipped down to my small breasts. At first, this turned me on. But mid-thrust, your face tightened.
“Would you ever consider breast enhancements?” you said in between breaths. You were inside me. All. The. Way. In. And you were asking me about a boob job?
No bueno.
I pushed your hairy chest away and retreated to the bathroom. And much like a teenager, I mentally measured my breasts in the mirror. I stared at them from above, assessed from below.
I’ll never forget that long minute when I actually considered your proposition.
I had long felt like your project. What was a lowly radio producer, after all, in the Hollywood hierarchy?
But if I pumped up my breasts, what would come next? This was Los Angeles after all. I was surrounded by people struggling to be pretty enough, smart enough, funny enough, good enough. I saw them everyday at the radio studio: these beautiful shells with a sadness in their eyes.
I had long considered myself exempt from the show biz game, from this book-by-its-cover thinking. I, in my ratty converse and crazy curls, was a different species. Right? The “D) none of the above” in the Hollywood scene.
But two years in La La land, and with you as my chaperone, I was totally morphing.
Until that fateful Valentine’s day. Until I grew some balls (correction: until I grew some ovaries) and stood you up.
Finally when the bars had closed and the streets were quiet, I left my hiding place at the radio station and drove home. The moon smiled down at me. I swear it.
When I reached my house, you were long gone. You left three dozen long-stem roses in front of my doorway. I stared at the beautiful buds but did not reach for them. Instead I stepped over the bunches, unlocked my front gate and went inside.
I will not be your cyborg Valentine, I thought. And I meant it.
We never spoke again.
Was this an awful thing to do?
Yes.
Would I have done it differently now?
Yes x a million
Am I sorry?
Hell no.
*********************
In the land of self-help, there’s a ton of pressure to do the right thing: Speak your mind. Be strong. You are woman. Roar, damn it. But this thinking places young women in an all-or-none situation. You’re either brave or you’re not. You either stay the course or you raise hell.
What about the young people who lack confidence and experience? What if they’re not ready to ignite their inner she-ro.
My take? Sometimes you have to be a coward so that you can be brave. Sometimes you have to let your actions speak louder than your words.
And sometimes…you have to stand up your date on Valentine’s day and eat stale mints instead.
