Funnily enough, I used to wear black on Valentine’s Day. It began in my 20s as a sort of protest against the pressure the day brought upon single women and men, as if they were somehow deficient grays among all that red and pink.
I experienced a childhood where our middle and high schools would announce the names of girls who had received flowers in the front office over the loudspeaker, and my name was never called.
That embarrassment and resentment built to the point I shortened the name to VD as a joke, no longer a fan of what the day was intended for.
Little did I realize, I was fighting back against the wrong people. I have been single longer in my life than I have been with anyone, yet I am satisfied with how things have turned out.
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