Are You There Cupid? It's Me, Becky.

So the fact of the matter is that Valentine's Day has a love-hate relationship with most people. Singles drown their sorrows in martinis and Jaegerbombs while couples ho and hum about what to get their significant other to adequately express love and gratitude within budget and without being too sappy.

For me, the eternal optimist, the hopeless romantic, and the slightly perturbed but still happy to receive candy hearts twenty-something single female, Valentine's Day is really a time to simply be happy and appreciate the love I have in my life. (Translation: Love the flowers from Dad and trusty stepmom, buy yourself a brownie, and laugh a little too hard at others who want to stick their head in the microwave due to all the surrounding love-y dove-y-ness.)

As my first V-Day back being single, I was (if we're being honest here) a little worried pre-Valentine's Day about how I would feel on the holiday that emphasizes being in a couple. To my own surprise and relief, I felt totally fine. In fact, I felt better than fine. I was happy. I listened to my clients' plans of pre-set menus and runs to the florist without a twinge of jealousy. I gave suggestions of great date places for those single guys with a special non-girlfriend (yet) dates. And I was genuinely happy to help without a single "And I hope she breaks a heel" thought in my head.

With all this positivity flowing and love in the air, you bet your buns that Cupid did not shoot an arrow in my direction. (It's me, remember?) Fortunately it's too cold outside for pigeons to poop on my head. But...

After work I'm teeter-tottering about whether to go out with the rest of the single population, but more specifically, with a group of two girl friends and two guy friends. I was exhausted from work, had homework to do, and the thought of getting ready seemed comparable to the challenge of climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. BUT--- I bought a new shirt and I was dying to wear it. So yours truly jumps in the shower and makes it out the door in a swift 45 minutes. (Notice the usage of the word swift.) And really, I look hot. My new shirt is working for me, I got the knee-high black boots on with skinny jeans, and my bangs happen to be falling in the right place. It's a good night.

I meet said friends at a bar in Wrigleyville and upon entering notice the cluster of men and women there donning necklaces with either a lock or a key attached. Apparently the bar was doing a Valentine's Day-find-yourself-someone-to-makeout-with exercise which involved said locks and keys. I luckily skipped the step to get either and made it in without the obligation of making out with anyone. (Dad, I'm sure you're pleased...)

Fast forward...

It took me about 30 minutes to finish Drink 1 but now I'm on my way to the bar for Drink 2. (By the way, 2 or 3 drinks about does me in. I have zero tolerance and I'm proud of it. Thanks.) After waiting ten minutes by this James Earl Jones-sounding guy looking for his next trophy wife, I decided to move to another part of the bar where there might be a bartender to actually fix my drink. I move about 20 feet away to an area that has a small(er) crowd thinking that maybe I'll get my next drink before I completely digest the first one. At this point, there is a seemingly harmless guy standing next to me who says:

Him: Here's the deal, if you get to the bar first, order my drink. If I get there first, I'll order yours.
Me: I like it. Go team.
Him: What's your name? I'm (fill in the blank because it's too loud to hear and he has a complicated name. We'll call him Homer McHasNoGame.)
Me: Becky. Nice to meet you.
Him: What do you do?
Me: I'm a hair stylist.

Fast forward again...

We get to the bar at the same time, he orders our drinks and asks me if I'd like a shot. I say OK only if it's something girly because otherwise he should come look for me with my head in a garbage can about an hour later. He recommends a lemon drop and I'm game.

We have Round II of drinks and are chatting while the bartender makes our shots.

Him: So where are you from?
Me: Originally? Here... Sort of... I grew up in the north suburbs.
Him: Which one?
Me: Northbrook.
Him: Oh! So you're a rich bitch!
*record screeches to a halt, crickets cricket, and my jaw drops to the floor*
Me: Umm... Excuse me?
Him: *laughing* I'm joking I'm joking! Don't worry. I'm not much better. I'm from Skokie.
Me: You're right. You're not much better. I'm just saying, I work full-time, go to school practically full-time, and have an internship. But I can see where that'd lead you to believe that I solely rely on my "Daddy's pocketbook". *insert fake smile here*
Him: I was just joking. Really.
Me: Ok. Well, whatever. I've been gone from my friends for awhile now so I'm going to go back to them. But thank you for the drink and shot and we're over there *points* so if you and your friends want to come say hi later, feel free.

I walk away and re-join my friends and I'm just about to tell them what happened when I turned around and he's right. behind. me.

Me: Oh. Hi. What's up?
Him: *crickets*
Me: Umm... These are my friends. (I make introductions.)
Him: So what do you do?
Me: Again, I'm a hair stylist... And a student... And an intern...
Him: So where do you live now?
Me: Gold Coast.
Him: I should have guessed...
*My face drops again*
Me: Dude, that joke didn't go over well the first time around...
*I excuse myself to hide in the bathroom where the bathroom attendant asks me once if I need anything. Twice if I need to use the bathroom. And three times if I'm simply hiding from someone when I finally give her that winning smile and say 'yes'. She says, "Would you like a stall to hide in?"*

So, the moral of the story... Even though I love Valentine's Day unconditionally, it won't change the fact that Cupid, inevitably, was shooting whoopee cushions in my direction instead of arrows.

Thanks alot, Cupid!