The best part about the end of summer is that you can finally stop living off cantaloupe and flavored seltzer water and switch to binging on Nutella-covered Oreos because your inevitable winter weight will be well hidden under oversized sweaters, which will pass off as “slouchy.”
The best part about the end of Valentine’s Day is that you can finally stop going on dates with weirdos who never managed to master the correct use of your/you’re in the tedious search for someone to bring home to mom and dad during the holiday season.
Valentine’s Day marks the end of the seemingly endless string of holidays (Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day) that most of us would prefer to not spend alone and an end to your parents questioning your sexuality because you didn’t bring a date home over winter break. Because, for some reason, Netflix can’t count as my boyfriend.
Halloween is the dying cry of sexual freedom and celebrated singlehood. Even though you had a great time hooking up with your roommate’s friend on Halloween while dressed as Kim Possible (until you started throwing up that Four Loko), once the hangover subsides, it’s time to hang up the patent leather stilettos in favor of a beige cashmere turtleneck to hide the hickeys and search for that perfect, quiet boy with a matching religion to bring home for the holidays.
Those unlucky souls, present company included, who did not secure a mate, retreat into their carton of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Phood to be washed down with a bottle of Chianti through a straw, all while watching “Breaking Bad” with our cockapoo for the duration of Relationship Season. It is in this pit we wallow until the heart-shaped boxes of chocolate are half-off.
Flash forward to Feb. 15: the day that hibernation ends. Sweet tranquility enfolds you as the commercials reminding you to buy something special for your nonexistent lover finally end, the teddy bears that say “I love you” finally stop mocking you from the shelf, Instagram will no longer be plastered with pictures of hearts made from rose petals and I can finally stop telling my parents that I’m not a lesbian, I’m just single.
Couples are the ones that now retreat into their dorm-sized bed together to look at property taxes in different parts of the country, and fold socks together because it’s now time for us singles to rule.
As the weather very, very slowly begins to warm, the Army of the Unattached comes out of hiding to spread our seed while our poor, coupled roommates will have to hear all the war stories of those we’ve conquered. Those that must listen to the conquered tales of “That Guy I Met in CPR Class” and “The One that Failed Out of School,” will go to bed at night, head nestled in the crook of someone’s hairy armpit content, but secretly wondering about life on the other side of Valentine’s Day.
