A Valentine’s Day poem:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Watching Netflix is cheaper
Than dinner for two.
Thank you, thank you. I’m clearly not bitter at all. It’s just that Valentine’s Day sucks. Valentine’s Day is the worst day of the year for single women and also everyone else. It’s too much pressure for couples (i.e. “What if this is too much? What if this isn’t enough? What if he forgets all together?”), and it’s obviously no fun for single people.
(and I actually had a boyfriend when I tweeted that)
Last weekend I had a friend over for
a glass two bottles of wine in my new apartment. We discussed the oddities of being twentysomethings; how weird it is that people we know are having babies ON PURPOSE; the perils of being fat and broke, which–in the scheme of things–neither of us is; and recent dates we’ve been on…or lack there of. Taking advantage of the opportunity to show off what a cool, open-minded New Yorker I am, I said that I had just created a profile on Tinder. “Tinder?” she responded, in a tone that I can only describe as “What is this, 2014?” I might as well have said, “I still pull my hair through a cap, and tomorrow I’m getting my first diaphragm!”
There I was, thinking I was this modern woman, when really I was your grandfather who still mail orders two DVDs from Netflix every week because he doesn’t know about online streaming.
I’m sort of kidding. I didn’t really believe Tinder was a hot new way of meeting Mr. Right, or Mr. Right Now, or experimenting, or whatever I’m supposed to be doing at this point in my life. But I did think it was still relevant.
One of the first things that people notice about me is the massive scar on my leg. Recently, I was thrown into a panic when I passingly glanced at my leg and did not immediately see my scar. I quickly searched for that familiar, knotty ridge that has been my constant companion for so long. Phew, it was still there. Fading, but still there. And it got me thinking: what would I do without my scar? Who would I be without my scar? My scar is a steadfast confirmation that I’m me. In my life, I have learned that the distance from incident to tragedy can be only a short walk, and that the path may be littered with all kinds of unexpected calamity. The scars that these afflictions leave, forever serve as an indication and remembrance of the battles that I have fought and won. I accept my scars as what they are: born out of ordeal and hardship and acting as a constant element of my identity, reminding me that I survived. The reality of living a full life is that I will meet my share of adversity, and that some of this adversity is going to leave its mark on me. A few years ago, I vowed to no longer view my scars as disfigurements but as unwavering reminders that I am blessed, that I am tough, that I won the fight.
Click here to read my list of 9 reasons you should do the same.