All My Single Redheads

Okay, now I know what you are thinking, and like me, I suspect you don’t want to talk about it. Perhaps, even mention of the subject will create tension, or a general feeling of discomfort. For some, it might even bring up unsavoury memories of empty chip bags and flat bottles of Champagne. Now that it is fast approaching us; however, I feel like we can no longer look the other way. We have to address … Valentine’s Day.

That’s right folks! In the spirit of February, I feel it is only appropriate that we discuss the upcoming 14th. As a balding, gay, singleton on the cusp of his forties, you might think I would dread this commercialized holiday. And in years past, you would be right. The truth is, like most relationships, my feelings about Cupid have changed over the years.

In my elementary school days, I remember feeling quite excited about the winter occasion! Puckering at the taste of cinnamon hearts, I recall casting a large net with my Valentine’s Day cards. Writing personalized letters, I penned the proffer, “Will you be mine?” in calligraphy 26 times. Then, I walked around the classroom, and made sure everyone got one. In high school that all changed.

Attending St. Jude’s, an all-boys private Catholic school, I was too far in the closet to be confessing love to my same-sex crushes. Oh, me oh my! What I would have given to have walked up to Christian Taylor, Captain Canada, with a single rose and a note attached asking, “Will you stem this with me?” Sadly, that was not my fate. Instead, I probably brought cheap carnations and disappointment to another girl at Perkins.

In my early twenties, out and proud, February the 14th became a prized night with all my single ladies. Booking four-tops at the hottest restaurants around Winnipeg, we celebrated our single status while dishing on the entire catalogue of Sex and the City. How the prosecco flowed! And then, as the clock turned, all my single ladies became engaged. And then married. And then had children. And then I never saw them again.

“Instead, I probably brought cheap carnations and disappointment to another girl at Perkins.”

By my early thirties, my relationship with St. Valentine was in steady decline. At The Meatball Hut, I remember making quite the scene with my scheduling manager Ronna. “You know I will serve any day of the year,” I paced back and forth in front of table 76. “I will even serve Oscar Sunday which you know is a gay holiday!” Like Paul Giamatti in Sideways I then pointed my finger and screamed, “I AM NOT SERVING VALENTINE’S DAY!”

I suppose this brings us to the present! Well, you know what, this year, I am okay with it. Even though my time with Theodore J. Nelson came to a devastating end – at least, I learned I am not dead inside.

The other day, in the spirit of meeting men, I downloaded the dating app that Pete Buttigieg, United States Secretary of Transportation, met his husband on. Filling out my profile and uploading photos, I screamed when I got my first like! Then I screamed again, when a message popped up asking for my Credit Card number and a monthly payment of $39.99.

“Screw that!” I said, pouring a glass of red wine. Then, I switched back to poor man’s Grindr, watched a ten-second ad, and hit send on a message that read, “Oh hey!”