Buy Yourself Some Flowers!

This started as, "Ten Nice Things to Do for Yourself" when I snuggled into my bed for a nice nap yesterday afternoon.  I was looking at the vase of roses on one of my nightstands and thought, "Awww...  That would be a good entry."  Then, as I thought of more things, I realized I sounded like a Cosmopolitan article.  So, instead, I thought I would share my thoughts on buying flowers for yourself.

As I've discussed, Mr. Man is not a Valentine's Day guy.  So, on Thursday, when I found myself in the grocery store to pick up some cheesecake for the two of us to share later, I was amused by the number of men lurching through the store clutching cellophane wrapped flower arrangements.  Their eyes were bugging and confused as they looked for something else to add to the Valentine's Day offering that was going to be given in the hopes of getting laid.

I decided to indulge myself.  Why not?  I like flowers.

It's right around the corner...

I'm going to get this out of the way a week early... Valentine's Day is around the corner.  Bleah. I've never liked Valentine's Day -- even when I've been with someone.  Maybe even especially when I've been with someone.  Why?  Because there are so many expectations of gestures of romance and love and chocolates and roses and jewelry.  Since I seem to pick men who are either poor or just not romantic, I am always disappointed.

It doesn't help that, at this particular moment, I'm pretty pissed off at Mr. Man.  I won't go into the reasons, I'll just say that he's a butt head and I don't see it getting better in the next week -- unless he has a lobotomy.  Unfortunately, you can't just order those up.  A professional has to say you need one and I guess it's a pretty big deal and stuff.  So ...

In years past, I always wore black on Valentine's Day in protest.  But it's not really a protest.  It's a billboard proclaiming, "I'm bitter because this holiday has always sucked for me so I want to suck any joy that you might have on this day."  That's why I'm getting this rant out early.  Even though I hate the day, I know a lot of people love it and even look forward to it.

Or maybe I just have a really bad past life memory from Ancient Rome and the Lupercalia Festival.  Getting hit by men bearing thongs made out of goat skin doesn't seem all that romantic or alluring.

At least my History major gave me something -- the ability to rationalize my own bitter attitudes with the help of knowledge about obscure, ancient pagan rituals.  I wonder where a girl could get a goat skin thong ...  Or maybe I need to get on a plane to Edmonton:  Lupercalia MMXIII.  Probably after a weekend of this kind of celebration, I just might long to be underwhelmed by the lack of effort of any of my Valentines.