Selfish

It was, perhaps, a bit selfish, but I spent Valentine's Day appreciating ... myself.

The bitter joke is that February 14 is really Singles Awareness Day.

I, however, am already quite aware that I am single. And for the first time in a long time - perhaps ever - I was appreciative of my unattached status on the Day of Love. I decided to celebrate it.

I changed the meaning of the acronym - SAD became Sarah Appreciation Day. I dressed up. I wore the pearls that Matt and Molly gave me. I went shopping. I bought myself chocolates and two Agatha Christie mysteries. I rented a movie. I fixed a fabulous (and pretty) dinner and had my first-ever steamed artichoke (I liked it, but that's a lot of work for not very much artichoke). I felt vindicated, though, in steaming and then ripping apart the artichoke, as it was the same one that attacked me at Safeway a few days ago. Vengence was dipped in melted butter and tasted pretty good.

I wished almost every person I ran into a Happy Valentine's Day. It felt like Christmas. I was brimming with good cheer and determined to share it. I was contemplating the different kinds of love that we experience in life, and I was thankful for the love I was reminded of yesterday.

My dad sent flowers (tulips!) to my office Friday. I ran into a former professor and mentor (and current friend) in Wal-Mart last night who had been snagged by a desperate-looking man in need of Rose Advice. Among the three of us, I think he walked away secure in a doghouse-free Valentine's Day, and then the professor and I caught up in a whirlwind of chatter next to the gourmet cheese case. I talked to Brooke. I talked to my mom.

I drank too much wine (the story of my Valentine's Day-affiliated life), but it was good wine, so that's (almost) OK. It'll be a lot more OK later today, after I've eaten something ...

I'm OK with selfish on a day like Valentine's Day. I've spent too many of them moping and feeling sorry for myself, wishing that this or that had turned out differently so I could spend that day with Someone Special, neglecting to look in the mirror and realize that I already was, and that in the continued absence of the Best Company (aka Mr. Right), my own company is pretty good to keep.

And, as Holly would remind me, a bigger Someone reminds us every day of His love, and that's worth celebrating, whether it comes cleverly wrapped with heart-spangled ribbon or whispered to a lonely heart on a bitter Valentine's night ...

Forget the new year

The problem with New Year's resolutions is that we expect them to last throughout the year, and we expect phenomenal, science fiction-quality things to happen in the span of a year.

Seriously.

You're not going to eat chocolate for the rest of the year? Are you a Sadist?

You're going to go from a flabby couch potato to running a marathon (in a bikini) by the end of the year?

You're going to undo ten years of fast food and lethargy and look like a body builder by Christmas?

You're going to ready every dusty book on your shelf? AND Write the Great American Novel? AND start and finish your Ph.D. in some obscure level of science? (Don't forget single-handedly saving the Amazon Rain Forest. Forget sleeping, friend)

Nah.

Forget one-year goals.

I'm starting small. I'll start with New Week resolutions. By the time I'm eighty, I might have worked up to New Year's resolutions, but by then, I'll be senile enough that every day will seem like a new year. Lucky me. My goals then will be to find my (own) teeth and to Name That Mystery Jell-O Flavor.

This week, I will:

Go to the grocery store. Not eat all the baklava. Stand my ground when that 100 mph gust of wind comes up. Read a bit more of Cokie Roberts' "Founding Mothers." (Not all of it, mind you -- but a bit more) Take a multivitamin sometime during the week. Try to remember to take my meds every day. Or almost every day. Drink coffee. (And lots of it) Watch a chick flick. Do laundry. Not overdraft my checking account. (Note that I did NOT say that I'm going to balance my checkbook; I don't want to get out of my league here)

Wish me luck, friends. A week can get pretty long, you know. But at least there isn't anything about a bikini in there. Or running a marathon.

Speaking of marathons, I just read a letter from a cousin in his early sixties (yes, a first cousin. I'm a baby in the family in so many ways ...). He's getting ready to run his 23rd marathon. On that note, the leftover brownies in the breakroom look tempting.