St. Valentine, Your 'Tine not My 'Tine

Today is Valentine's day. In case you haven't been reminded by the d-day like deluge of targeted advertising, it is a day in which we buy cards with roses on them for the one person who matters the most in our life... and let's us have sex with them without pressing charges. Which is great. If you're coupled or potentially coupled. But if your not, Valentine's is simply a reinforcement of your inability to find or build or maintain love.

I have been single for about four years. Before that I was in a two year relationship to someone who in retrospect was not a good match. Which allows me to revise the figure. So I have been single for about six years. There are prevailing theories as to why and they can be generalized into three areas. The first, is general incompetence. I have never been a great dater, or pursuer for that matter. I don't know if it because I never learned this skill from anyone or my paralyzing fear of personal rejection, but the reality is that I just suck when it comes to the courtship phase. Inevitably, the sociopath who is both aggressive and pathologically charming inevitably wins. Go figure.

The second theory is that in the gene pool that is Los Angeles, I am not what you would consider a prize catch. Now I don't know whether this is true, but the great thing about living in this sunny landscape of narcissism and showy displays of assets is that it can make anyone, and I mean anyone, feel grossly inadequate. You're ravishingly handsome? Wait, there is the more ravishingly handsome guy across the coffee bean from you. You're rich? There is the guy who makes a Saudi prince look like someone who chooses his houses in sizes like double-wide. You're successful? There is the guy just bought your company and put you in a cardboard box. And the kicker? They all inevitably drive a better car than you. And it's a convertible.

The third theory is gender confusion. I don't think I am gay. I have never been attracted to men. I've never felt a sexual yearning for a same sex person. But maybe I am gay. Maybe my soulmate is a guy... in Sweden... who wears hush puppies and turtlenecks and assembles furniture with hex head wrenches. You know soulmate, that mythical creature that powers the fantasies of Harlequin readers and makes Fabio a star. And much like it's cousin the unicorn, who makes us buy plates with rainbows on them, it forces us to contemplate otherwise outre theories. Like I am gay. But hey, you never know.

I am not sure which one is probably the most true (a shrink would probably say one) but to maintain an egalitarian consistency I will say there might be some truth to all three, although I really don't think I am gay.

But anyways, the intended behavioral results of Valentine's day is to drive love mad consumers to the stores to by the aforementioned cards with roses on them in the hopes of getting laid. The unintended result is to drive us singles into the canyonlands and labyrinths of internal dialogue where we wonder "what's wrong with me?"

And maybe there isn't. And it's just the price we must pay so that another segment of society can enjoy a day of warm fuzzies before they go back envying us and our carefree lifestyles and crushing self doubt. But it certainly beats mowing the grass.