The best advice I can give to a lonely woman on Valentine's Day is to stay the hell away from those "Singles Parties" that someone always, without fail, gets the bright idea to host every year. Maybe there is a one-in-a-million chance you can find a soulmate (or at the very least casual sex), but if you're like me that longshot is pushed aside by an unchanging human tendency—drowning one's woes in free champagne. Last year, the host being good-natured and quite liberal with his supply of drinks, I firmly told myself that I would be a vibrant, quite irresistible flirt and attract the attention of some good-looking guy.
It took me about twenty minutes for me to realize that maybe there were good reasons these men were single on Valentine's Day.
Okay, so maybe I'm no catch either, but ...well, let's just say that one guy told me he works as "an adult entertainment cinematographer and visual technician" (i.e., creepy fuck who gets paid to videotape naked women), which wouldn't have been so bad if he was attractive. It might actually have been a turn-on. But the thinning hair, glasses, turtleneck and patched slacks was kind of off-putting. He slipped me a business card, flashed me an unnerving smile and stalked off. I stared at it incredulously. As soon as I looked up I saw the same guy slipping his card to another man wearing a baseball cap and a denim jacket. That was about the time I decided my best bet lay with the champagne.
Needless to say I got piss drunk and ended up passed out on the host's couch (who also happened to be my boss's secretary's friend, so you can imagine the fun I had the next day), still half-hoping that somebody would at least try and take advantage of me. Unfortunately, I was well aware that I had easily crossed the line between 'willing' and 'pitiable'. Being drunk in a room packed with creepy, pathetic men in their early forties and not being hit on the entire night isn't exactly a boon to your self-esteem.
Even despite the spectacular failure of last year's outing, I was still tempted to give it another shot. However, common sense prevailed and I decided to at least spend the night geared towards something productive, and my thoughts strayed to more than a few looming deadlines. On the drive to the office I at least managed to half-convince myself that I was a vibrant, career driven woman instead of a loser who was, once again, dateless on Valentine's Day.
I know some people might be able to find a humorous take on the situation and, to my credit, I felt I was putting forth at least some effort into trying to be positive. But still, I couldn't help feeling a few pangs of loneliness as I drove uptown, everywhere I look seeing bright lights, the flamboyant decorations and advertisements put forth by hopeful merchants. My tires rolled to a stop as I approached a red light, and as I glanced out of my window I saw a couple making out like two teenagers against a building. The man had his hands pressed up against the girl's shoulders; she seemed to be busying herself well enough, because she had one of her legs wrapped around his ass and pulling him into her. It was a little rough—perhaps a passerby would have had the nerve to politely enquire if the woman was all right. But all of the happy couples aflutter with lofty fancies of romance, gazing into each other's eyes as they strode down the street arm in arm, didn't seem to notice.
I sighed, looked away from the scene and reached for the knob on the radio. I was greeted by the sound of old-school guitars and British voices that I couldn't at once place. Then,
"One, is the loneliest number that you'll ever—"
"Ugh!" I slapped the power button on the radio in disgust.
I got through the rest of that depressing drive by reconciling myself to staring straight out the window as the streets zoomed by. I turned back to the radio, cycling through the stations until I found a hip-hop station. Loud beats and lyrics about murdering a gangster's mother blared through the car. It was, as far as I was concerned, trash—but at least they weren't love songs. After about twenty minutes I pulled up to the vacant parking lot of Incommunate, the 'cutting-edge' network communications industry where...where...well honestly I'm not quite sure what the company does. All I know is that my job consists of summarizing computer problems for my boss in reports and filling out endless stacks of inane paperwork. Feeling a touch of rebellion, I took my VP's parking spot.
I walked through the empty ground floor, past the vacant receptionist's desk, and rode the elevator up to the IT department on the fourth floor. In the ten years I've been here I've managed to get my own office, but not much else. It was the only minor status symbol my monotonous life afforded me. A bell rang--the elevator doors slid back, revealing the dark shadows and silence in the sprawling mess of cubicles and desks. I struck out on a hallway to my right, my footsteps echoing in the silence, unlocked the oak door to my office and sat down at my desk.
Okay, I told myself. This is fine. I am strong.
I spun around in my office chair and removed a massive stash of papers from my filing cabinet, then dropped it on my desk with a thud that echoed through the whole building. A few swirling dust clouds rose up from my mahogany desk.
I pushed the stack onto the corner of my desk, removed the first sheet from the pile and placed it face up on my desk. I grabbed a pen, ready to get down to business as a strong-willed, independent person.
But it was no use.
I desperately tried to concentrate on the words in front of me, but a second, much stronger pang of loneliness and subdued frustration seemed to bubble to the surface. I bit my lip and swallowed. What was wrong with me? My eyes seemed to sting and swell up.
Just as I felt the tears build up in my eyes against all efforts, the distant clang of a door startled me out of my reverie. I sat up sharply. The sound was followed by what could only be approaching footsteps.
I frowned, momentarily relieved of my sadness by curiosity. I wondered who else could be here, then reflected it was more than likely the janitor. I sighed, picked up my pen again, and tried to return my attention to the document in front of me.
Okay, I thought, Standard Technical Requirement Application oh what's the POINT?
