How to Survive 14th of February - An Unofficial Guide

With Valentine's Day long gone, I think it's time we have a good old motivational conversation (or monologue) about everything that day is, and is not about.

Let me establish my credibility right in the beginning, by saying that I have been single for the last 19/19 years of my life AKA I know what I'm talking about.

Years and years go by, and February 14th comes and goes. What remains is that couples are still killing themselves with ideas for their significant others, and single's are still whining about not having their better half, and or/hating on those same couples previously mentioned.

Valentine's was supposed to be the day of celebration and eventually, it became the day of self-pity and exaggeration.

For example, my girl friends keep asking me for advice about buying the gift for their boyfriends and I find that extremely ridiculous, because how would I know *insert the sassy girl emoji*

I do my best in convincing them that:

a) they have no idea what to buy to you just as well
b) they just want the day to be over and have a good day (once again, just like you)
c) buy them the good old chocolate. if he doesn't like it - you do.

In the end, I finally manage to convince them not to stress out about the present itself, but to make sure that they have an amazing day and not an amazing present when the Valentine's come to the end.

And what I do on that day?
Do I self-pity myself for not having to stress about buying any presents?
Yes, of course I do... for about 97 seconds. Then I take myself to the nearest cinema and spend the money I would've had on chocolate - on Deadpool tickets.

And what happens on 15th? I can't stop talking about Deadpool and my friends usually share their chocolate with me.
It's a win - win situation, honestly.

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*cure the serious/motivational part of this already pointless essay*

What I wanted to say is - why do we care?
I used to be so insecure and so pathetic when Valentine's was approaching, with miserable Facebook posts of a pissed - teenage girl back in 2011, that are now bringing extreme cringiness whenever Facebook kindly reminds me I have memories to DELETE on any particular day.

What I have realized over the years is that it's all bullshit. All the self-pity us singles feel, all the "shame", all the "embarrassment".
What we've grown to forget over the years is that, in its original idea, 14th of February was dedicated to love. Now, I don't think anyone ever specified what kind of love you're supposed to celebrate.
And so just like your parents have every right to celebrate their love, so does your neighbor and his boyfriend or your best friend and his girlfriend.

And just like that, we should all take the chance to celebrate ourselves.

The only person that will ever hold your back 100%  is literally - you.
So, instead of feeling like you don't matter, like there is no one who cares enough about you, remind yourself - about yourself.

Next year, being single, married, in a complicated relationship, doesn't matter... make Valentine's Day the day you celebrate yourself.

Instead of hating on others, whining about being single, or stressing out over the gifts, remind yourself that you matter. Treat yourself with tickets to the movie you've been dying to see. Buy yourself a book. Drink yourself into someone else's apartment.

Celebrate yourself by doing anything that makes you happy or at least, nothing that makes you sad.
Try to cross something off of your bucket list.
Make it the day you start the change you actually promised to do on 31st of December previous year.

And ffs, stop the self-pity.
Stop insecurities.
You are beautiful.
You are worth it.

And yes, there are people who do care about you. It doesn't have to be your boyfriend/girlfriend.
There are your parents. Your friends. Hell, even your pets.
Maybe even that stranger that smiled at you cares more about you than you think.
(alert: this may or may not have been a complete failure of an observation)

And remember - to be able to love someone else, and to be able to feel loved, you have to just do one simple thing:

Start loving yourself!

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An Essay (#1)

A/N

'Ello.

While I figure out my next blog post, I wanted to share the essay I wrote last semester for my Critical Reading and Writing course. The task was to describe my favorite hobby and/or  activity and this is what I came up with:

CLARI-MATE

Bored.

I always had that problem. That feeling of being unoccupied and lacking enthusiasm always forced me to try new hobbies and activities. I tried everything my little town had to offer; from playing sports and dancing; to managing school’s marketing team. Playing an instrument however, may not have been the easiest path I’ve chosen to escape the Land of Dullness. It took time to learn how to read notes and then use that instrument to create sound. Over the time, that lifeless piece of wood changed from being a stranger to a friend, and then eventually became an extended part not only of my arms, but of my soul as well.

Unknown.

I was eleven when I joined the local orchestra with my friends. I had no idea what the outcome might be as I had no previous experience with being one with music. Sure, listening to it was something I thoroughly enjoyed, but making sounds out of nothing was completely out of the ordinary. At the time, notes on the sheets were as equal as my younger sister’s scribbles on the paper.
My parents encouraged me to try it, just like they did with everything in my life. Trusting their judgment, I courageously showed up to the auditions. I stood in the unknown hallway for the first time, trying to shrug off the panic by chatting with my friends. What is he going to ask me? Can I do this? Am I good enough? What I fail? , were just some of the questions that occupied my mind while I was getting closer to the old wooden door and piano sounds behind it.

Anticipation.

It is ridiculous how many times I can doubt myself and how many times I am stubborn enough to prove myself wrong. Of course I passed the audition. The only thing left was to pick an instrument, get familiar with it and start decoding these weird symbols that were supposed to present music.

Dedication.

Persistence.

Learning to read notes was an easy task. Befriending a clarinet - not as much. It took million takes just to remember how to put a clarinet together. The bell. The right hand holds the second joint and the left one holds the first joint. Barrel is a connection to the mouthpiece, and its lid is that little devil that keeps scratching my reed. After the clarinet was all set up and ready to torture my nerves, it also took a million takes to learn the right way to position my lips on that fragile piece of wood. "Place them gently on the mouthpiece. Avoid your teeth and do not press too hard, find the balance" These were just a few of the reminders that my teacher and former conductor was warning me about.

Satisfaction.

Art.

Two years of countless baton hits and challenging practices later, l was one with the instrument. Mission to rehears the sheets was no longer an obligation. It was a pleasure and a getaway. Screeching sounds of beginner’s mistakes turned into Ravel’s Bolero, The Pirates of the Caribbean theme song and many other masterpieces. The list goes on and on, and each one intensified my love for playing the instrument.

Pride.

It was not until I got to wear the orchestra’s uniform for the first time that I realized how serious my hobby was. With great delight, I dressed myself in blue from head to toes. I buttoned the jacket with extreme caution because its buttons were threatening to fall off with the lightest pressure. The pockets were perfect to fit my portable sheets in. The hat was too big and it took me some time to figure out the perfect position to ensure it does not swallow my head. I put my clarinet together, entered the room and got overwhelmed by the feeling of the community just by opening the door. Some were old and slow. Some were young and mischievous. Some were talking in the little groups while the others were putting their instruments together, searching for their sheets or pouring the water above the small fridge. We all belonged to the different social groups but we all looked the same, completely dressed in blue uniforms that made us look like clones. Smiling faces holding out their hands and giving out hugs surrounded me, offering me the warmest welcome ever. And just like they did it the first time I entered the room, they do it every time.

Community.

Feelings.

Friends.

Unknown faces turned into names, and each name quickly found a way to my heart. It was not just about making music anymore. Soon, coming to the rehearsals was merely an excuse for little hangouts we spontaneously held for hours after we put our instruments to sleep. Those small hangouts turned into spending New Year’s Eve together and celebrating birthdays. During the summer we all go together on the beach and have parties almost every weekend. If we are not in our rehearsals room partying, we are in someone’s holiday house on the beach with guitars, drums, food and drinks, annoying all the tourists with our singing.

Bond.

Family.

It is extremely interesting how my greatest adventure started because of the boredom. I passed over the fear of the unknown and started the journey that has been going on for 8 years now. Anticipation of unexpected outcomes lead to dedication and persistence. I was stubborn enough to be the best I could. I used to play for hours, until my lips had no strength to hold the mouthpiece, and my cheeks were too sore to force the air through the tiny hole of the instrument. The feeling of satisfaction and the fact that I was bringing brilliant pieces of art into life was the only reward I needed. I was so proud of myself and I emphasized my membership with greatest pride. The community of these amazingly talented people was anything but exclusively serious and formal; the friendly atmosphere was almost transparent.

We are one.

When we play and sing together we sound like one.
When we are wearing our uniforms we look like one.
And when we hang out we act like one.

That lifeless piece of wood did not only help me express myself through music. It created irreplaceable bond between some strangers who soon became acquaintances. From acquaintances we quickly grew to a group of remarkable friends. And from friends, we turned out to be the best and the most diverse family anyone could ever wish for.


The end,
Beware:

And now for a quick trip down the memory lane:

Always a pleasure! :)