Editorial: Summer Lovin’

Editorial: Summer Lovin’

 

So, the month of love and Hallmark cards is done, and I can creep out of my single girl’s shameful closet.

 

I got dumped for Valentine’s day.

 

Don’t feel sorry for me, I had bigger fish to fry; a little dumping was nothing. And he wore terrible shoes anyway, and was far too in need of a mother for my liking. He liked those sandals with the woven straps that only Germans should be permitted to wear. And even then, they shouldn’t be allowed, but they’re German and that means they’re scary and I’m certainly not going to stop them. Apologies to Germans everywhere, but you terrify me.

 

Valentine’s came and went and roses were given and dinners were had and single people ranted about capitalism and the meaningless of it all. I couldn’t leave the house that evening. Flatmate and I wanted to go for dinner - single girls on the town, laughing, drinking wine and watching the couples of the city make eyes at each other and sweat through their romance.

 

But we couldn’t.

We’re tired of looking like a couple.

This isn’t paranoia.

 

A few months ago, while out for breakfast, we requested two glasses of water and when brought a single glass with two straws carefully placed, we realized that we’d been mistaken for lovers. Like two characters at Pop Tate’s in some liberal version of an Archie comic.

 

“Um, it’s just, uh, I thought you were, you know…” stuttered Waitress as I questioned the glass situation. I have never actually seen a person flee before. She fled.

 

It’s happened many times. We ain’t batting for the other team, folks, we’re just finding it hard to hook up.

 

There’s a new trend-word out at the moment. Bromance, referring to the unusually close bond between two heterosexual males.Valentine’s day, across town, two of my most caveman male friends meet for dinner. One is celebrating his birthday, the other arrives with a gift. The two spend dinner making smalltalk and worrying about whether their body language suggests they are engaged in the Valentine’s woo.

 

Oh it’s all so complicated.

I scouted the couples I know. All stayed in on Valentine’s.

Only one pair went out. To Spur at Ushaka. I love Spur, but it’s not exactly the Official Restaurant Of The Subtle Seduction. And as for Ushaka, well, I’m told there was a man wandering through the grounds serenading folks with Dave Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’ on his saxophone. Beautiful. Still, if I’m gonna get Wet and Wild and loony by Cupid’s bow, I’d rather it not be on the supertubes, you know?

 

I had a boyfriend once (it ended badly, surprise) who was perfectly adequate in the romance department. He took his cue and dished up the flattery and smoochy bric-a-brac when necessary. But on Valentine’s day we were not allowed to communicate. Not even a flirty SMS. Nothing. He said it was too much pressure. Something about commitment, something, something, fear, something, change of subject, something, the Blue Bulls are bastards, pass me the remote, something, something.

 

Truth is, I don’t want to hate this stuff. I don’t want to use Bridget Jones logic and curse the smug marrieds and phone up my single friends and drink until I’m slurring about my freedom.

 

In Class One, I put a Valentine’s card in my crush’s chairbag. He was good at colouring inside the lines and I thought he was dreamy. He cried and told on and the teacher made me eat my lunch alone at break. Things haven’t really changed that much.

 

Still, we won’t complain.

Happy month of March everyone. Ding dong cupid is dead.