A Valentine Story

Well, my first Valentine's Day in LA was much better than the last three or four I had in New York, even though I'm just as alone. I think it's partly due to the fact that mentally, I'm in a better place, but also physically, I'm not sharing the sidewalks with a city that's shoving their happy holiday down my throat. One thorny rose at a time.

Because I believe in karma, I'm convinced the reason I always seem to be single this time of year is because I surpassed my Valentine's Day date quota a long time ago. From the time I was 17 up until I was 23, I just about always had a Valentine. And that last year? I had two suitors! You do the math. (Please, do the math - tell my right brain how many more years I have to suffer alone.)

Back in February of 1999, I was nine months out of college, six months into Manhattan, and six weeks into a budding office romance. Because Copywriter was a good deal older than me (if you don't already know, you don't want to), we still spent our weekends apart - him sharing civilized dinners with his married friends, me sharing fishbowls at Brother Jimmy's with boys my own age. That's pretty much how I came to date Paul. What can I say- when it rains men, it pours romance.

Copywriter was warm, witty, and way more into me than I knew at the time. Paul was nice, attractive, and rather vanilla, but fun enough to hold onto for a little while, since the office thing would surely never go anywhere. I was flattered when Copywriter asked me for Valentine's Day plans a week in advance; but, since he was spending most of that week on a business trip in LA, I saw nothing wrong with a midweek date with Paul in his absence.

On Thursday, Paul came by to pick me up, but before we left he needed to make a phone call. I left him the privacy of my bedroom, and as I walked toward the living room, our buzzer rang. It was a flower delivery for me.

As I waited for the elevator to deliver my gift, my emotions rollercoasted from thrilled (ooh, flowers!) to impressed (what timing he has!) to doubt (what if they're not from him?) to sheer panic (WHAT IF THEY'RE NOT FROM HIM?).

Before I could do anything intelligent, thirteen (one for good luck) red roses walked through my door well before the person delivering them. They were huge and beautiful and tied with a red silk ribbon, and of course, they were not from Paul. Who was in my room, 15 feet away, seconds from finding out I had a second suitor.

I glanced at the card only long enough to see the sender's initial, and stage-whispered a plea to roommate Ryan from across the room, "Quick, hide these!" In a scene more likely ripped from the script of a bad sitcom, I practically threw the roses to Ryan who then stuck them behind the door of his bedroom just as Paul opened the door of mine, having just hung up from his phone call.

"Are you ready?" he chirped unsuspectingly. Sighing with relief, I swallowed my guilt and continued with the date, silently laughing to myself at the absurdity of it all. Who AM I and how did I get to this bizarre place? It wasn't so funny later that night when Paul asked me for plans on the big day and I had to tell him I was otherwise engaged.

As if that wasn't the worst of it, the next day, another 13 red roses arrived to my attention, this time from Paul. I surmised that he called the florist from my apartment, the address still fresh in his head, so like a gentleman, who wouldn't have to give away his intentions by asking me for the apartment number.

By the time Copywriter came home for our Valentine's Day date, it was over with Paul, but the start of something better. I had 26 red roses in my bedroom and 14 months ahead of me with - as his card read - the guy who puts the "man" in "interoffice romance".