I've been consciously trying to restrain myself from blogging these past few days. I didn't want flooding my blog with cornball thoughts in the season that was never made for someone like me. Although I have pretty much convinced myself that I'm okay, thing with Valentine's day is that it magnifies the heartaches you've been desperately trying to conceal. It kinda opens up old wounds that you thought were healing well. Suddenly you realize that you are after all, keloidal. Yeah right, did I just say I’m shying away from crappy sentiments?
Not too long ago, as I was heading for school, my brother instructed my nieces, “okay girls, give your Tita Grace a big hug and a kiss…coz no one else would do that to her today.” Ouch.It was Valentine’s day. Before I could switch to Gabriella mode, my nieces were taking turns in giving me not only hugs and kisses but a pat in the back. And I thought my brother has outgrown making fun of me. It seems he has found his allies. These kids were too young to comprehend the gravity of my condition but their showers of affection did melt my heart. My kuya was right after all. No one else hugged me that day. Not that I was expecting somebody in particular to do so.
The more I tried to ignore the season, the more it haunted me. Love, after all doesn’t only come in romantic form. Love from family and friends is worth celebrating, too. About 5 years ago, 2 of my good friends Sharon and Betty were nursing their broken hearts. Though they were coping well, there was that palpable pain you could sense they were going through. And Valentine’s day kinda rubs it in. I didn’t want to see them in such pain. We gathered other single friends who needed some form of amusement in one of the harshest days of the year. Sharon bought each of us a white rose. To quote one of Betty’s favorite poems “why wait for somebody to bring you flowers when you can plant your own garden?” My heartbroken friends did survive and enjoy the day, after all. For me it was a childlike delight to see my friends happy. It was a mission accomplished.
The following year, my previously wounded friends found romance once again. As expected, I was trying to keep up with my responsibilities as president of the of the “soltera club”. My co-founders of the said organization Elaine and Jessa were out in the mountains on their rolling clinic, so that left me with no one to hang out with on that day.
Then I thought of Ai, who was then dehydrating herself to death from all the tears she has shed from a recent failed relationship. We called on Ditdit, the resident boyfriend of every single girl in the class. My valentine’s outreach program was getting to be a tradition.
The next year, the tradition ended. There was no heartbroken friend around. I was out with my co-interns now best buds singing our hearts out at the videoke party we set up at the dorm. Since then I’ve been tagged “Britney” for making a mock of her songs. And I wasn’t even drunk. I coped pretty well with every Valentine’s day thereafter. I was either on duty or out with friends.
This year, it was time to revive the tradition. Although most of my friends this time are happily attached, including Elaine, yeah Elaine, who has yet to tender her resignation letter from our org, my good friend Pipay was being tormented by some guy who was giving her mixed signals. I didn’t want her sulking at a corner of her room waiting for the call or text that might never come. I know the feeling too well. As it turned out, I was the one needing the shoulder to cry on. I spoke with an axe buried in my chest with my blood spurting all over the place.
The call did come, earlier in the day from the one who holds the key to my heart, only to ask me which was better, tulips or roses…. and they weren’t even for me. He adores his new girl so much it kills me. One of the most awful feelings in the world is to be jealous when when you know you don't have the right to be. Pips asked me this question: “why are you always there for him, was he ever there for you?” Both of us knew I didn’t have to answer that. The minute it hit 12, we congratulated ourselves for surviving the day and decided it was time to go home. Janis Ian’s song “At Seventeen” began to echo on my mind. It was an Ally Mcbeal moment with a different soundtrack.
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