I will advise you as best I can.
You have your own rules. You, too, were a real self-starter. You still are except you spread your knowledge like it’s peanut butter – a little more tricky to spread than you anticipate and when it catches the bread, creates rips, and you think, “This is my mark and me leaving it.”
You have goals, most achieved, ticked, graded. You never found a woman you wanted enough to not move for a minimum salary job. You didn’t meet a man either, and you look periodically, but adverts don’t catch your attention like they used to. Once you were an easy sell with disposal income. Now, prices inflate but your wage is basically the same as it was ten years ago so luxuries are few. Mars bars. Cinema tickets. Sometimes you wish you’d kept your church service up so that verses might’ve been your mantra. You’d be really into tithing and you’d be living on the street.
You don’t think he’s wrong any more than you might be. You allow for margins of error, understand nothing’s made to last, make lists of questions when you’re meant to be working:
1. Did we meet already?
2. Should we get a coffee?
3. What will you do when I’m dead?
Sometimes your person is dating the wrong person. Or maybe you are together but you break up because state lines make the distance feel further and ferries are added expense especially when you suffer sea sickness and ancestors of yours got lost in water, and we’re not talking one or two but three or four on the family tree floating or sunk.
When someone’s locked in, got a ring, made a commitment, you can’t always persuade them of the reasons it should be you instead, so succumb to coercing, make a list of grand gestures and try them on friends first to check you’ve got the scale right: we want romantic comedy crazy, music videos set entirely in well lit rain. And if your list fails and she’s still marrying Chad, Michael, Kerry, remember people change their minds at the alter, there’s divorce now. If you wait years you can have her when he’s dead.
We look to TV to figure out what we do on Valentine’s. We can’t find perfect cards, anywhere, that have the right words on. Some days we wonder if it matters: fiancé, fiancée.
And the film they plug for years after isn’t helpful, and the TV shows we watch are office romances, love stories between people who in real life would end up alone.
But we book tickets, reserve seats, buy overpriced cards and paper, because we’re hopeful, because Michael Scott got his happy ending, and we might meet someone by Tuesday.