Deborah Lipp

I hate my birthday.

I hate my birthday because I want it to be magnificent and glorious and “My Day” and all that. And if it isn’t, it’s disappointing. I want to be surprised, but if I don’t tell anyone, then my chances for magnficence and lots of birthday wishes are decreased. And if I do tell people then I don’t get my surprise. (Once, my then-husband surprised me by telling me he couldn’t be bothered with my birthday this year so don’t expect anything, which hurt so much that when the surprise came, it turned out not to be worth it.)

So until yesterday, I never hated Valentine’s Day. But yesterday, I had a very pleasant day. No relationship. No cards. No flowers. No glorious romance. No disappointments. No keeping my fingers crossed hoping the man in my life won’t fuck up. No agreeing not to do V-Day and then being the idiot standing there opening a present without one to give in exchange. No agreeing to do V-Day and then being shattered when I get nothing nothing nothing. Again.

Yesterday I felt free. I didn’t even notice it was V-Day until I logged onto some blogs. And then I thought, “I feel better this way. I like me better this way.”

There’s a scene in Robin and Marian. Robin has been at the Crusades for thirty years, during which time, Marian became a nun, and eventually an abbess. And she says to him, she was at peace for all those years, and one day with him and she is happy to throw away her peace because she loves him so.

Damn, I love that movie.

But I also know that’s true for me. I know I’d throw away this peaceful feeling for expectation and hope and disappointment and aggravation, all of which are part and parcel of being in a relationship. But I also know I really do like the peace.