Valentine's Day Revisited

     I've been reading through my journals and came across a piece I wrote on a Valentine's Day not long before Michael and I got together.  (So, no, this isn't about me and Michael.)  

     It's a time capsule of Valentine's past and a reminder that the most important relationship any of us has, is with ourselves.

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February 14, 1995
New York, NY

     He called this morning.

     I hadn't heard from him in months, but knew he'd call today.  Because it's Valentine's Day?  Because he likes to mess with my hard-won peace of mind?  I don't really know.

     Even though I knew he'd call, when I picked up the phone I was thinking it would be my friend, Melissa, or Carol, my neighbor,...or anyone, really, except him.

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     I surprise myself when I answer his "Hello.", with "Don't call me anymore, okay?" I don't recognize myself; I sound like Maureen O'Sullivan-no-nonsense, serious-as-a-heart-attack.  But, then I'm not sure what to do.  I stand there staring at the blank white wall in front of me, hearing the sudden clatter of my heartbeat, and the startled silence at the other end of the line.



     That sure wasn't what I thought I'd say.  I lived a long time with the hope that something I'd say could fix everything and we'd live happily ever after.  It feels like I'm frozen there for a year.  Stuck.  Gradually I realize, for the first time, I really don't want him to call me anymore.  Then, as I listen to the muffled growl of a garbage truck ambling through the streets below, it is clear to me that there isn't anything else to say.  In slow motion I watch my hand put the headset back in it's cradle.

     Done.

     I wait for the crashes of pain that have dogged me for months.  More like years.  I've spent our entire relationship breaking up with this guy.

     This time I've made it through a lot of the 'haven't seen him since...' milestones.  They hurt.  A lot.  A day, a week, a month, two...six, then eight...  It didn't seem to get any easier.   I expected this first Valentine's Day would be torture.  I thought I'd wake up smothering beneath the cloud of depression that had become my comfort zone.  Instead, I woke up with feelings I almost couldn't identify.  It felt like something very close to peace, joy even.

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     I walk a different path today; head uptown on Madison, treat myself to lunch at a nice cafe, west on 82nd, spend hours browsing the Met's bookstore, then turn north when I enter the park.  I listen to the comforting shoosh shoosh of my feet crunching through the snow.  I pull my hat further down over my ears.

     Then I sit for a while by the frozen Turtle Pond with the statue of Poland's late, and I assume great, King Jagiello.  He looks pretty radical.  The inscription doesn't tell me much, but from the looks of him, I'd guess his reign involved some serious crusading and torturing of enemies.

     I consider the possibility that I will never be a King.

     This seems sad and limiting.  I'm thinking I'd really like to have a statue in the park with a pretty view.  I'd love a plaque that says "King Susan" on it...not to mention a kingdom to call my own, jeweled crowns to sport, and the hearts and loyalty of my devoted subjects.  Not a bad gig all in all.

     A minuscule dog prances by wearing the world's tiniest dog sweater.  He has a certain something about him.  It's the gleam in his eye, the jaunty swagger, the obvious 'I own this park' attitude.  I catch his eye and he seems to know, and approve of, how cool I think he is.

     I've always preferred big dogs, but today I'm just loving this guy.  I feel good about my own benevolence.  What a great quality in a king.  Maybe I'll check the Real Estate section on Sunday-see if there are some kingdoms for sale.  Magical ones, preferably.  Whatever.  I'm feeling good enough today that I think I might just have a happy life even if I never am king of anywhere.

     The few people who come by clearly wonder about me.  They look back and forth between King Jagiello and me.  They seem to be trying to solve the mystery of a girl sitting on a stone bench in front of a dead king, on the coldest day of the year, writing in a book.

     I can't guess what conclusion they have reached as they leave.  That I'm crazy?  That I'm a King Jagiello groupie?  I doubt they guess that I'm considering kingship as a career path.

     It doesn't really matter.  I scoff at the questioners of my life and actions.

     Scoffing!  What a great pass time that is.  Damn, I really would make a good king.

     When I first arrived there were just a few lone people trudging through the snow but when I look up next people have appeared all around me.

     I get up, flex my fingers, and slowly get my body moving again.

     I walk past the black and white sculptures of trees and bushes, past the white mantled ball fields, watch some kids having a snowball fight, a family building a snowman, and catch a whiff of roasting chestnuts coming from a vendor's stand on 5th Avenue.  I round a bend and see a woman sitting on a bench with her feet propped up on a bank of snow.  Her legs are crossed at the ankles, and her arms crossed over her chest.  She peers over the layers of sweater, coat collar, and scarf at her golden retriever sprawled out in the snow.

     I feel a kinship with this woman who sits on cold benches on freezing days.  She even has the same dog I'd choose if I could have one.

     The dog is hungrily crunching away at a stick.  I laugh, and the woman looks up at me and laughs too.  She says the obvious:  "He likes that stick."  We talk about the weather.  I admire her dog and ask, on a whim, what his name is.  "Cosmo.", she says.

     I am completely stunned.  This unusual name has come up in three conversations in the last two days.  I tell her this.  She says the name came from the dog's former owners.  "There was a TV show way before your time."  I wonder how old she thinks I am, then wonder how old she is.  I thought she was my age but then I tend to think everyone is my age.  She explains about a character named Cosmo Topper, who has friends who are ghosts.  She also tells me there was an episode of Seinfeld called 'What's Kramer's First Name?'  Turns out it's Cosmo.

    She gets up and follows her dog.  I'm kind of thinking: "Hey - this is one of those cosmic coincidence moments.  Shouldn't we talk more?", but then figure whatever I'm supposed to get from the interaction, I must already have.

     I circle back behind The Met, sliding down the slight incline beside the north end of the museum, walk crosstown on 84th, and down Lexington.  A bucket of roses in front of a corner market catches my eye and I buy myself one as a token of my esteem.

     Today is a day for lovers, and I am a lover.  I love this city, I love its many moods and seasons.  I love statues of kings, funny little dogs, big old dogs eating sticks, the return of my sense of humor, and momentary connections with strangers.   I love snowy days in the park when joy comes to sit with me and be my friend and comforter.

     I am a lover of life.  I am my own Valentine.  I am not half of a whole.  I am whole all on my own.

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How do you feel about Valentine's Day?  Love it?  Hate it?  What's your idea of a good one?