If other people turn into the Scrooge during Christmas I, on the other hand, usually mutate into one on the month of Valentine’s Day, reaching full mutation on the 14th. As the rest plan their romantic dinner and second-guess what their partners will give them (aside from the requisite bouquets of flowers, preferably red roses), I don’t give it much thought especially after all the relationship horror stories (two-timing bastards, non-committal attitude, indecisiveness – you get the drift) I’ve heard and read, and my own battered heart. I do have a sense of decorum and not rain on the parade of lovers out to paint the town red. And I do admire one aspect of it – the cute renderings of the impish Cupid whose aim that leaves one exhilarated and wounded at the same breath. I also mull over the pulchritudinous Aphrodite and her numerous affairs.
Irksome flashbacks of former jejune colleagues stomping their feet in mock anger of an imagined transgression of their lovers would inundate my thoughts at this time of the year. These colleagues related what they’d do if their lovers didn’t present them with bouquet of flowers together with some expensive item. But recollections of couples walking the streets of Orchard carrying their bouquets and stuffed toys sent me giggling too – it was a bloody parade of the huge divide between the little bouquets (the have-nots) and gargantuan bouquets (the haves).
Love can be beautiful but not when you’re recuperating from the spanner thrown at you by the universe. When I was in the midst of a terrible break-up most of the people – they were well-meaning people – mouthed the cliché “it’s not too late to love”. The phrase just bounced off my mind having shunned romantic love. Me-time was top priority: reading, practicing yoga, watching movies, playing badminton and blogging. A year or so later, the Scrooge in me still resurfaces but not as acrimonious as before. Am I ready to be Cupid’s next target? I prefer to keep a low profile and observe from a distance – for now.