Before I start, let’s make one thing clear: I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. I never have, I never will, I’m a stubborn, unloving shadow of a girl who just doesn’t get it, and that’s that. (Although, read this back to me in twenty years and I bet I’m too bitter to stick to this statement. A single spinster desperately begging anyone and everyone to please just send me a card on this one day of the year. I’ll report back when we get there and let you all know.)
That over with, it came as somewhat of a surprise to me when my boyfriend (now ex, maybe it was because he made me celebrate Valentineā€™s?) of two years announced last year that he would be visiting me at university on the most dreaded weekend of the year. I loved my boyfriend, I really did. He was a great guy who knew me better than anyone and blah blah blah but he had got this so wrong, I didn’t want a visitor.
And so in the run up to That Day I made it clear that I wanted no cards, no presents, no stupid heart-shaped chocolates and no ‘I love you’ teddy-bears. Instead, I wanted one thing and one thing only out of his trip. We were going to do Valentineā€™s the proper way; no soppy cards and claustrophobic dinners where you and the couple at the next table are essentially entering some sort of double date. No, none of that. We were going to have sex, and lots of it.
That Day arrived and there, standing at Temple Meads was The Ex, no flowers, no card. Two twelve-packs of condoms and a change of clothes and we were set for the weekend.
But if I’m honest, I was feeling a little under the weather. We had got fish and chips and had holed ourselves up in my gloomy room in halls, door locked and prepared to settle in for the long haul. But I just wasn’t feeling it.
And so here’s a lesson to learn: whether you want to be stubborn about the situation or whether you want the full works, spa day, dinner and romantic drinks afterwards, Valentine’s Day will just never ever meet expectations.
I tried to have sex, I really did, but a full on flu had set in. My raging temperature and annoyance when anything, especially his roaming hands, touched me meant that doing anything at all was a real struggle.
The closest we got was 5am in the morning. I had been unable to sleep the whole night, my fluctuating temperature keeping me awake and uncomfortable, and so had made us both stay up and watch almost the entirety of Gossip Girl series 6. A sweaty and smelly me, an exasperated and undoubtedly exhausted him. It was, you might think, the perfect romantic Valentine’s scene.
And so, starting to feel a little better, I decided to try and ‘wake him up’ if you know what I mean. I wanted a weekend of sex and so a weekend of sex was what I was going to get. I put on my best moves, tried to ignore the jabbing pain in my head, and attempted to make his forty quid train ticket worth it.
The result ten minutes later was a teary me, lying half-unconscious on top of my poor, undeserving boyfriend. Sweaty and thoroughly unsatisfied, the thought of ‘riding’ him any more was just impossible. Half flu, half motion sickness had left me well and truly ruined.
And so the real irony was that, despite spending the last few months telling him how equal we were, how I would not want anything for Valentine’s and how he didn’t have to give me anything, he spent the rest of the weekend literally waiting on me, making sure my every need was answered and even running to the shops every time I ran out of painkillers or chocolate.
My present back to him? The flu, a few days later.
I guess the real moral of this story is that Valentine’s will always be the opposite of what you want. So while it’s pointless getting your hopes up for the most romantic day of the year, it’s also pointless doing a me, and being determined to have the least romantic Valentine’s ever.
The fact is, if you are in a relationship, you should treat each other the same every day of the year, nothing needs to change for a special occasion. Just don’t get your hopes up. So if you ever find yourself in my, extremely stubborn, position, just go for your normal one twelve-pack of condoms for the weekend, not two. Realistically, if you’re anything like me, they’ll still serve you well. Because frankly, half the fun is in the sexy stuff that doesn’t need them anyway…
Ā
XO