How to get through another Valentine’s Day

N ow, I’ll contend that people are idiots when it comes to relationships. So there’s nothing to debate there, but somehow, we’re always thinking there’s more to this.

It goes like this. You start talking to someone and you think you’re doing pretty good. The other person is laughing, and soon you start hanging out more. Soon you think, hey, this person likes me. Maybe we can go out on a date.

But before this progresses any farther, what the person who is being hit on should do is tell us their status. Here’s an example of what you should and shouldn’t do.

After seeing each other, whether it be in class or at work or under whatever bizarre circumstance, after about the third day the person with a significant other should say something like, “You do that, too? My boyfriend’s the exact same way!” Now we, the hapless ones, will suddenly pause.

This is the time the neurons need to tell the brain, which in turn tells other regions: No, she’s (he’s) not available, but keep on talking and looking like it doesn’t bother you. This is commonly described in second-year psychology textbooks as the “I have a boyfriend” pause, where one person is frozen for about two seconds (one second for the heart to sink and one second for the neuron thing). But if you have someone else, you have done a good thing. You have established that you are not available, but enjoy our company. At least we know. We will never figure out why you’re dating the other person, but at least we know. So eventually, this idea of being with you will get out of our heads, or we will shoot ourselves.

What you shouldn’t do is this. You, the person in a relationship, is hanging out with us, the idiots, in history class and things are going good. Talking, flirting, using witty banter and sharing a genuine dislike of the class are good signs.

It’s going so good that we go off and buy two pairs of Neil Young tickets, thinking that you will go with us, because both of us like Neil Young, because both of us are tone-deaf.

So we’re at the show and everything is going great. We watch the opening band, Moist, for no good reason except for hanging out with that apple of our eye. And after their set, we mention how we think they are a bigger poser band than Sugar Ray and have as much credibility as our grade-three brother’s book report in which he copied the description off the back of the book.

And the person we’re with says, “Really? My boyfriend quite likes Moist.”

Now, why would you do that?
Now, we’re thinking how we’re going to ask for our 40 bucks back (oh, thank you, George Costanza) and “Rockin’ in the Free World” has lost all meaning. The person we’re infatuated with will say we’re a good friend. The thing is that we can’t understand this. You wanted to go out with us, but not in that way. Why didn’t you tell us before? And if you do have a special someone, could you at least wait until Neil Young is finished?

Now, there’s some terminology that must be defined.

There are stages of hurt to go through. The above example is called “treeline.” You’re riding a horse and things are coasting along and, as you are in that state, you don’t see that tree branch and it hits you in the chest. You fall off the horse and it keeps going. You get up, dust yourself off and walk away. You’re a little damaged, but you’ll still get back up on another horse.

That’s not that bad, but there’s more. So there’s this person that you constantly hang out with and you aren’t really “dating,” but are spending a lot of time together. Then, one day, the person suddenly is staring into someone else’s eyes or they move away or something. And you say, “Aw, fuck,” or, if you’re young like me, you say “Sheesh!” But what you should really say is “Toque on the bus!” Let’s explain.

You’re riding on the bus and you’re wearing your favourite toque.

It’s probably knitted and your grandma spent hours knitting it during The Price is Right. You get hot, so you take the toque off and put it next to you. At your stop, you get off the bus, but you forget to take your toque!

You missed the opportunity and you just forgot about for a split second. Well, you have to make sure that you don’t forget about that special someone like you did the toque on the bus. But the question remains: if the toque was so good, why did you forget it? The toque is great, it’s just that one second of not thinking.

It’s that hesitation of should-I-kiss-her-or-not. If you do, you could be wearing a toque (or a neckbrace), and if you don’t, you missed your chance.
Unless you take the same bus and it’s still there, or you call “lost and found,” but that’s getting a tad lucky.

Now, there’s the ultimate stage.

A very painful one where it hurts for quite a long time. It begins with everything being very, very good. You’re late in the game, things are going wonderful and you know your relationship is so stable that if there are any problems you will surely sort them out.

It’s like you think you’re going to catch a football. Your hands are open. You’re in the endzone. It’s the final play. You think you’ve got it.

But you don’t.

You get a football in the groin.

You get the conversation of feelings-have-changed and things-aren’t-the-same-anymore but we-can-still-try-to-be-friends.

And as much as you want to figure this out, you cannot. It seems the person you thought you were in love with is like an old Macintosh computer. You’re typing and all of you sudden you get “System Error.” “Type 1.” Restart. What does type-1 error mean? And why did this happen? I was just typing!

You just don’t know. And even when you do restart, things aren’t as good as they once were, because the hard drive has become more fragmented.

There is a chance that with some work and a visit to the computer shop, the computer (and thus the relationship) can be good as new—or even better. But even then, you know it dropped out on you once before and you have to change the way you work—always making backups, always wondering if it will freeze again.

Nobody can explain the football in the groin, but you know when you’ve been footballed.

There’s always a Lucy, who continues to hold that football. And we, the hapless romantics, like Charlie Brown, know that Lucy may pull the ol’ football.

Yet we still line up, we still run and kick hard, hoping that we may kick the ball instead of our groin.

So, on this manufactured holiday in which the chocolate companies can make some more money (that being Valentine’s Day, which is really St. Hershey’s Day), some of you will be told it’s true love and some of you will be footballed in the groin. Just wear a cup.

And for god’s sake, if you’ve got a boyfriend or girlfriend, just tell us.