V-Day
Buenos Diaz!
It’s Valentine’s Day, that day on the calendar that makes singles sick, lovebirds
swoon, and people with kids wonder whether they bought enough Valentines for
everyone in Timmy or Jenny’s class and whether they’re bad parents for choosing
the store-bought cupcakes over the homemade and Pinterest-inspired. Today is
also confession day here at Buenos Diaz. Gather round now, come in close. Can everyone
hear me? OK, here goes.
I, Vanessa Diaz, am a girl, and sometimes I act like one.
Honest to God, 97.6 percent of the time I don’t mind and even enjoy being single. Knowing how to be alone and relish it is something I’m quite proud of, really. I like that I can go see a movie, take a trip to the Farmers Market, sit at a restaurant or coffee shop or lay out in the park all by my lonesome and not feel a desperate need to be accompanied if company isn’t in the cards that day. I’ve been very independent for as long as I can remember, so tell me why this year there is something about this saccharine-soaked, commercial concoction of a holiday that for whatever nonsensical reason really has me thinking deeply about my life choices. It feels pathetic. I will elaborate.
I hate having to admit this because it makes me sound like one of those girls, the ones who bitterly denounce “Singles Awareness Day” by sulking on their couch listening to Adele and eating Godiva. Maybe it’s the flower deliveries to people not named Vanessa at work or the emotion bubbling beneath the surface of my composure every time I realize I am quitting my job in 3 weeks. Maybe it’s because my favorite of favorites is no longer a well I can draw from and that person is going away and shacking up with someone for the love-filled weekend while I’m sitting here noshing on Gourmet Inka Corn (corn nuts for the grown and sexy) with a glass of Nebbiolo (I wrote this Friday night, I’m not being a booze-hound before 9am).
I’m not betraying anything though. I’m just a woman. I’m allowed to feel and need and want. So I will confess that I do in fact feel and need and want and that doesn’t make me any less self-possessed. Yeah, I allowed myself those thirty seconds (ok, minutes) of feeling sorry for myself, then I decided to get up, turn on the lights and think of V Day as just that: V Day. V Day as in Me day. I may not be in love, but I am loved and I do love. The rest of this blog post will focus on that love. Here are some people who aren’t obligated to love me out of a blood relation.
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I, Vanessa Diaz, am a girl, and sometimes I act like one.
Honest to God, 97.6 percent of the time I don’t mind and even enjoy being single. Knowing how to be alone and relish it is something I’m quite proud of, really. I like that I can go see a movie, take a trip to the Farmers Market, sit at a restaurant or coffee shop or lay out in the park all by my lonesome and not feel a desperate need to be accompanied if company isn’t in the cards that day. I’ve been very independent for as long as I can remember, so tell me why this year there is something about this saccharine-soaked, commercial concoction of a holiday that for whatever nonsensical reason really has me thinking deeply about my life choices. It feels pathetic. I will elaborate.
I hate having to admit this because it makes me sound like one of those girls, the ones who bitterly denounce “Singles Awareness Day” by sulking on their couch listening to Adele and eating Godiva. Maybe it’s the flower deliveries to people not named Vanessa at work or the emotion bubbling beneath the surface of my composure every time I realize I am quitting my job in 3 weeks. Maybe it’s because my favorite of favorites is no longer a well I can draw from and that person is going away and shacking up with someone for the love-filled weekend while I’m sitting here noshing on Gourmet Inka Corn (corn nuts for the grown and sexy) with a glass of Nebbiolo (I wrote this Friday night, I’m not being a booze-hound before 9am).
I just suddenly
miss… affection. I miss nervous first kisses, or warm, familiar ones that melt you; I miss butterflies, anticipation,
cutesy gestures, intense bouts of eye contact; hands in my hair, hands on my
face, eyes wide open, eyes wide shut. I miss hand-holding, flirting, passion, surrender.
I miss hearing someone call me pretty. I miss feeling pretty.
The worst
part though is the feeling of guilt, that sense of “I’m not supposed to feel
the feelings!” that eats at me as someone who normally thinks of themselves as
strong, independent and not at all why-aren’t-I-in-a-relationship centric. I
feel like I should be impervious to these juvenile affectations, like its
sacrilege to miss the warmth, the smell, the feel of a man and still call myself
a feminist. This is especially true now that I’ve reached an age where I think
I’m supposed to be enlightened and above all of this mess, so now I’m not only
feeling out of sorts but feel dumb for feeling that way to begin with. I feel
like I’m betraying my own ideals. I’m not betraying anything though. I’m just a woman. I’m allowed to feel and need and want. So I will confess that I do in fact feel and need and want and that doesn’t make me any less self-possessed. Yeah, I allowed myself those thirty seconds (ok, minutes) of feeling sorry for myself, then I decided to get up, turn on the lights and think of V Day as just that: V Day. V Day as in Me day. I may not be in love, but I am loved and I do love. The rest of this blog post will focus on that love. Here are some people who aren’t obligated to love me out of a blood relation.
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I have a
friend who shares my not-so-guilty pleasures plus love of steak, bright
lipstick, beautiful white boys and getting on planes. We Snapchat our workouts
and pics of food afterwards. In the young and ratchet days when on a crowded
Vegas dance floor getting the bump-and-grind treatment from a brotha with plans,
she motioned to me, pointed down at the guy and said, “V, do you want a hit?” because
she didn’t want me to be left out. That poor guy looked at her hurt like, “Are
you pimping me to your girl right now?” and I just about died from laughter.
I have a
friend who calls me at 6am to tell me that she’s proud of me, who two years ago
looked me in the eye over brunch and said, “So you’re not an author yet, but you
ARE a writer, Call yourself one.” She’s black and from LA’s Valley and I’m a
San Diego Latina but somehow, someway, she is my twin. We bond over books and beautiful
words, delight in sarcastic wit and get into
good song be it Jay or Jill or that trap music. She’s been telling me I was
pretty since the day I met her and one of these days I’ll believe her.
I have a
friend who for years now I’ve been calling the poster child for pursuing your
passion. She pushes me in ways both overt and covert and though we may not
speak often it’s meaningful when we do. She brought me to wine, let me lean on
her at low points, and never made me feel stupid for loving someone I couldn’t
have. She once put a slice of salami on my sangria glass because we were all
out of strawberries and has dared me to dream recently in a very big and
international way.
I have a
friend who knows it all, the good, the bad, the ugly plus the emo, the insecure,
the crazy and the expectant, all of it wrapped up in big hair and too much
jewelry. He’s talked me off a ledge, showed me lightening in summer, sends me
YouTube videos of hilarious throwback rap jams and tags me in stuff about books
and pretty places. He’s brilliant and witty and maddeningly stubborn, pushing
buttons and boundaries and schooling me in emoji warfare. He knows what I need to
hear/feel and knows when things are hard for me, he tells me I’m important because
I need to be reminded and even when we’re not agreeing are close in an atypical
way. He encourages my honesty even when it isn’t easy, like he wants me to be
sassier, louder, braver, a bigger pain in the ass if it means coming into my
own.
I have a
friend who reminds me that I’m talented and worthy of more than I’m sometimes
brave enough to ask for, who challenges me as a writer and gets me to do things
in the name of “research.” As undergrads we spent the night before final exams
dancing to Afro-Cuban beats at Zanzibar, banking on my freakish memory to get
us through the tests because sometimes you just have to dance. She’s shared a $300 bar tab, a stash of emergency chocolate and
many life conversations with me and reminded me last night in a moment of “help,
I’m a little lost” that I’m not busted. She gets my struggles and I get hers,
and she’s the only person I’ll let speak cutesified Spanish to me so please don’t
try it because one is enough.
You know
what’s awesome- I could go on for DAYS. I have a ginger who frolicks on bays
with me, who encourages me and laughs with me about words that rhyme and unattractive
dance moves; I have a boss who’s a BFF who let me go supportively because she
knew I’d found my passion and because she shares that passion too. I have a
gypsy life-shift Sherpa who takes me on Baja adventures and tells me to keep on
dreaming. I have so, so, so much love in my life that it almost seems silly to
want more.
If today you
find yourself madly in love with someone who loves you too, I’m truly very happy
for you. I encourage you to revel in love because love is an amazing thing and
even if it’s corny and cheesy to make a big deal out of it on Valentine’s Day-
so what! Go for it! The world needs a little more love. Go be sappy and happy
about it and let the haters hate. If you’re single like me, I salute you just
the same! Love is probably all around you like it is for me, you may just have
to make a list and write it out to remember that. Do it, you’ll surprise
yourself.
I am now
about to go enjoy my V-Day with a group of beloved friends that I am lucky to
have in my life. I’m also going to lather on the SPF because I live in San Diego
which has a blatant disrespect for winter. I will leave you with some wise words from Hugh Grant, a classic quote
from a classic movie.
“It seems to
me that love is everywhere. Often, it's not particularly dignified or
newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters,
husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit
the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on
board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaky
feeling you'll find that love actually is all around.”
Happy Valentine's Day!
Bookishly Yours,
Vanessa
