Illustration by Forsyth Harmon
I’m a cis, straight white woman dating the man of my dreams. He’s liberal, progressive, handsome, young, he’s got a career and his shit in order, he is not afraid to call himself a feminist, he’s emotionally available and prioritizes me through his actions, and to top it all off at my place he puts the toilet seat back down after he pees.
I know you’re ready to throw this correspondence out as a humble brag or not so gently remind me that there are people with real problems in this world, but hear me out: he will call himself feminist, but when he says or does things that are micro-aggressive or sexist, I can’t get him to own up to it–he’ll argue it’s my wrong interpretation of a scenario because, after all babe, he’s a feminist.
From the ages of 11 through 23 I was sick every year on Valentine’s Day. “Allergic to love” was a common theme in the emo anthems that hugged my cassette player on the 7-minute drive from home to school, and it is also a phrase that I believed accurately described me. I was glad to miss out on mandatory classroom Valentine’s Day cards and pink shit. I was glad to miss out on everyone else’s flower deliveries. Last week someone asked me if I had ever been in love, and I just laughed and laughed and they were quiet. “Invented by Hallmark,” “sexist capitalist bullshit,” “just another day whatever,” “I mean how are we defining love anyway.” I celebrated the last few Valentine’s Days on a “self-love” tip, which consisted of overcooking steak and watching Beyoncé videos with a whole bottle of Pinot Noir. Valentine’s Day makes me sick, and not just because I’m a feminist, and not just because I’m alone.
Bey don’t know about this life.
Drink when you check the “single” box. Drink when that makes you feel a way. Drink when Beyoncé says you and means you. Drink when you’re not the girl in the Kay Jewelers commercial. Continue reading