Mountains Made Low

Earlier this week, I was talking to a friend, and after she made a somewhat suggestive comment in our conversation, she apologized to me, in case her comment had “crossed the line.” I hadn’t thought twice about the comment, just laughed when she made it, and I responded that, while it had been suggestive, as she thought, I was pretty sure we couldn’t even see that particular line in our friendship from where that comment was. She agreed. Case closed.

Back in August, as my first semester on my new job was about to begin, I wrote here about the beginning of a short, but nonetheless fulfilling, relationship I had back in 1999. More specifically I wrote about the masks we all wear in our relations with other human beings. I stated then, that at that point in my life (in 1999), my primary mask was that of the aloof intellectual, and how that mask caused this woman, who had (apparently) been interested in me for some time, to not say anything about that interest, and how we, but for a brief moment in which the “real me” shined through, would likely have missed that time we spent together, entirely.

But I also wrote then about the primary mask I wear now: one of gregariousness. What I didn’t mention then, but have been thinking of now, particularly in light of my conversation about “lines” earlier this week, is that maybe it’s just a little bit disingenuous for me to refer to this persona as simple “gregariousness” when talking about it in broad terms. Because while that’s what it is, up to a point, I realize, too, that it can become, and often does become, more than simply smiling for the camera and being easy to talk to.

The bottom line is: I flirt. A lot. And given the fact that most of my close friends are women, well, it requires a lot of keeping tabs on that line (or, more accurately, those lines, because they’re different in every situation).

And sometimes that’s difficult—or, at least, causes difficulty.

I think sometimes, when first encountering me, and my gregarious/flirtatious mask, women aren’t sure whether they’re being hit on or not. The answer is generally “not,” but I won’t hesitate to admit that it’s sort of a testing of the waters, too, particularly since I know I become even flirtier when, even right at first, I find something about a woman attractive. In most cases, as these women get to know me better, they learn that it’s harmless, it’s just part of who I am, and while I flirt with women who are romantically attached all the time, as with my friend and her suggestive comment, I’m not looking for it to progress beyond that. In most cases, I flirt because flirting is fun, and that’s all.

But this cuts the other way, too. Just as women who don’t know me sometimes get the impression that they’re being hit on when they’re not, sometimes, it seems, that women who do know me, and who know this about me, don’t get when my flirtation indicates what might be a more serious kind of interest. Honestly, I’m not sure there’s a difference in me and my actions, my flirtation, when I’m doing it because flirting is fun and when I’m doing it because I think a particular woman might be fun to have around more often.

The worst of it is, I like the point where my flirtation is accepted as a harmless part of my personality; it opens up the possibility of not having to take every little thing so seriously, and being able to have fun with all the possibilities of a friendship. At the same time, I don’t like having that that flirtation accepted as harmless, when I don’t intend for it to be completely harmless.

It’s a conundrum.

And I’m not sure what to do about it. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, either because she thinks I’m hitting on her when I’m not, or because I am hitting on her when she doesn’t want me to be. But the thing of it is: I’m pretty good (I’ve been told by my close friends who are women) at flirting. I’m not so much good, though, at indicating whether my flirtation is “just for fun” or something indicative of a different kind of interest. And I’m pretty sure that—whichever a woman wants it to be—my behavior can, at times, “cross the line” and come off as the other.

But I feel like I should come with a warning label or something. Because often it doesn’t mean anything, but sometimes it does. And I’ll tell her one way or the other, if she asks (or, honestly, if I get the distinct impression that she’s got the wrong impression, one way or the other). And I wish I was better at showing that difference, to avoid any misunderstandings that may arise.

But I sure don’t know how.

It seems to me that cats and dogs are probably the most popular pets we have. If you say your pet is a cat or a dog, no one looks at you funny—at least not funny in the same ways as if you say you have an iguana or a tarantula or an ant farm; the only funny looks you’re likely to get is if the person you’ve just revealed your pet to had you pegged the other way: they thought you were a “dog person” and you tell them you have a cat. (I get that look a fair amount, actually.)

But that’s what I mean. When it comes to professing preferences for pets, we divide ourselves into (usually) “cat people” and “dog people”—we may mention “horse people” on occasion, of course, but that’s usually with the unspoken adjective crazy in front of it, because we all know that being a “horse person” is apt to make you “horse poor.” Unlike their equine counterparts, though, our canine and feline companions are unlikely to break the bank—and it’s very hard to keep a horse in the house. So most of us self-describe as either “cat people” or “dog people.”

Lots of people have both cats and dogs and love both cats and dogs, but if you corner them, I bet most people will identify one way or the other. And it has to do with elements of the relationship with their pet that they value most. I’m a cat person, so I’ll tell you first how it seems to me that cats view their relationships with their people (all statements made from a cat’s point of view):

• I rely on you to provide for me; this means food in a bowl and water in a different bowl; I don’t want to be able to see the bottom of the food bowl—if I can see the bottom, it’s empty, and you need to do something about it.
• Mostly, I handle my own crap; you will, however, need to deal with large quantities of it from time to time.
• I like to cuddle, but only when I’m in the mood; sometimes I’ll cuddle a little bit because you want to, but I’ll let you know when I’m done, and you better take the hint, or I’ll scratch your face off.
• I like to play, and I like to play with you or play by myself, especially if there’s catnip involved.
• If you have plans for the weekend that don’t involve me, it’s cool, as long as there’s food in the bowl, water in the other bowl, and my crap is under control; I’ll miss you, and I might be a little pissy when you get back, but for the most part, I’ll enjoy the “me time” while you’re gone.
• I didn’t come to you spoiled; If I’m spoiled now—about being able to drink running water from the tap or about my “cookies” in the morning while you’re making your coffee—that’s your fault; I didn’t really expect any of that until you gave it me, so blame yourself.

Dogs, on the other hand, seem to have a quite different set of expectations. Don’t get me wrong; I like most dogs, and I’ve even had a few really great dogs. But the rules are different (again, from the dog’s point of view):

• I rely on you to take care of me; this means food in one bowl and water in another, and I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me, so you need to prepare meals for me; and I tend to slop—a lot.
• Every time I’ve got crap to deal with, no matter how little, it’s your problem; you get to deal with me, every time, and you get to clean up the mess later.
• I’m going to follow you around; I may or may not insist on sitting in your lap, but wherever you are, I’m going to be; probably at your feet, and sometimes in your way.
• I’m really not the play by myself type; I’ll be happy to bring you a ball so that you can play with me.
• If you have plans for the weekend that don’t involve me, you’ll have to get someone to take care of me: those meals need to be prepared, my crap still needs to be dealt with, and I still don’t play alone; and even if you get me someone great, I’ll still be pissy with you when you get back.
• I was pretty much born spoiled for attention and for snacks, even if I’ve never gotten table scraps in my life, I know that if someone’s eating I may be able to eat, too, if someone drops something, and I’ll probably be offended if no one drops anything.

Okay, so my preference is clear, but like I said, it’s not that I don’t like dogs, I’m just pointing out that they have a tendency to be high-maintenance. Cats much less so. (Mine’s across the room, asleep on the couch as I write this—“as long as we’re in the same room, it’s all good.”)

Yes, I’m a cat person. But I think this whole cat-person/dog-person thing is deeper, more potent than just cats and dogs. I do believe that our cat/dog preference indicates the type of relationship we like with our pets, but I also believe that our cat/dog preference indicates the type of relationship we prefer in general.

Take a look at that list of cat traits again. Having said I’m a cat person, these traits all make sense in a relationship with another person to me, too, and here’s what I mean:

• Taking care. This is what relationships are all about, right, meeting each other’s needs: emotional, spiritual, physical—but I expect neither to wait on someone hand and foot nor to be waited on; instead, it should be the sort of thing where, like the food in the always-filled dish, we know where to go and how to get what we need, and we ask for what we need if we can see the bottom.
• Crap. We’ve all got crap (now not literal) to deal with, and in relationships we should be there to help each other deal with the crap; but mostly people should be strong enough to deal with their own stuff, and at least have it mostly together when we go to someone else needing help—doesn’t make it easier to deal with, necessarily, but it does ensure that we’re probably not, unknowingly, gonna step in it.
• Cuddling is what relationships are made for, but cuddling (literally and euphemistically) is at its best when everyone involved is into it; I think that a small cuddle, even when we’re not really in the mood (and we’re all not sometimes), is the stuff of lasting relationships.
• Play time. Playing with your relationship partner is good; knowing how to play without them, and enjoying it, is good, too, and so is having other friends (like stuffed animals and catnip mice) to play with.
• Me Time. And speaking of other friends, doing something with “the guys” or “the girls” or non-gender-specific other friends is a good time; and knowing how to enjoy time apart whether you’re the one with other plans or not is a good thing; having the chance—in the short term—to miss our partners and then rejoin them (but not in a pathetic texting every five minutes kind of way) is important.
• Spoiling. We have the right, in a relationship, to spoil each other or not; we don’t have the right to demand to be spoiled, or the right to demand that our partner not be spoiled when we’ve spoiled them; if you’re the type who likes spoiling someone, you can’t complain when your partner turns out to be spoiled.

That, to me, is the truth about cats and dogs—at least, cat people and dog people. And I’m a cat person.

…daily.

Such is the message from the pulpit of Rev. Ed Young, pastor of Fellowship Church in Grapevine, Texas. (For the full news story and context, see: http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/Story?id=6264959&page=1.)

While Rev. Young’s goal—starting a conversation about sexual relationships and God’s creation of and place in human sexuality—may be laudable, this “assignment” from the pulpit is far from it.

Let’s think, for a moment, about the situations that Rev. Young’s congregants may be in as they hear this charge from their spiritual leader….

• A couple has been married for 25 years. Their children are grown, or nearly so. In their entire lives together, the husband has mentally and emotionally abused the wife, and their marriage is on the brink of divorce. Should this woman have sex with her abusive and estranged (in spirit or in fact) husband every day?
• Congregants are widowed or divorced. When they were married, they were entirely faithful to their spouses, but since becoming single again, they have been—possibly presently are—involved in non-marital sexual relationships. If they are so involved at the moment, should they participate in the pastor’s “sexperiment”? And, whether they are so involved and do so participate or not, what is their position in the ensuing discussion of sex and sexuality?
• A younger, unmarried couple attends the church. They have been together for years, are engaged, and plan to be married with the next year. Since their engagement, they have been living together, saving money for their future life together and their planned children. Do they participate? What is their role in the discussion?
• A 19-year-old woman, either pregnant or with a young child, attends the church. The child’s father is no longer in her life. How will the ensuing discussion of sex impact her?

This is a bad idea.

But it’s not only a bad idea because it’s inconsiderate of the life situations of anyone in the congregation who is not happily married. It’s a bad idea because it reinforces a lot of, well, screwed up notions in and about the church when it comes to sex.

Rev. Young claims that his edict is about bringing to the fore the idea that sex is an expression of love. Well and good. We should all always remember that. But I’m sorry, I chose the title of this post very carefully: When sex daily for a week is an assignment from your pastor, it’s probably not going to be lovemaking for every couple every day in that span. I would wager that for every couple involved, at least some of the activity involved in completing this assignment will be just sex—just screwing—because pastor said to do it. There will be little thought of love involved.

Many in the world are shocked that a pastor would tell his (or her) congregants to have sex. This doesn’t shock me, particularly in the way that Rev. Young couched his assignment. It would have shocked me if the good reverend had suggested that all sexually active members of his congregation participate in this experiment, not just those who are married. As it stands now, Rev. Young is simply reinforcing the magical thinking that surrounds sex in the vast majority of congregations, church bodies, and individual Christians: that the words “I now pronounce you husband and wife” magically and inexplicably transform something dirty, something to be fought off and renounced, something just plain sinful and wrong, into something beautiful, created by God, and to be enjoyed, even reveled in. Who says the church doesn’t practice magic? (And I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard about people who’ve “been good” and “waited” who’ve had a heck of a time overcoming the years of “sex is bad” conditioning they’ve received from the church, after they’re married!)

And let’s not leave out the idea that that a pastoral instruction does tend to reinforce the idea that sex is somehow obligatory for married folks. This is generally seen as a woman’s obligation to “let” her husband have sex with her (whenever he wants to), which overlooks a couple of sexual facts: 1) Many (most?) women want, need, and enjoy(!!) sex as much as men; 2) There are (believe it or not) times in which men do not want sex. And the bottom line is: Neither partner is likely to feel true pleasure, enjoyment, or satisfaction (gratification may be as close as it gets) if either partner—or both—approaches sex as though their partner is an item to be crossed off a to-do list.

So while I do think that the Rev. Young’s stated goal—conversation about sex in the church—is, at its base, laudable, I firmly believe he’s going about it wrong. If you want to have the conversation, Reverend, may I suggest that you simply start the conversation? That you not set up walls and barriers to open and honest communication on the topic by drawing lines between those who are married and those who are not? That you not set up sex as taboo for the unmarried and obligatory for the married? That you not reinforce the magical thinking surrounding sex that has created the very sex-negative thinking in the church that it is your stated purpose to overcome?

If you want to talk about sex in the congregation, that is, perhaps you preach from the Song of Solomon, the only truly sex-positive book in the Bible, as something more than allegory for the relationship between God and the church. Explore the theme of sex and love and lovemaking in this beautiful poem without shying away from its sensual, and at times blatantly carnal, expression. If, as you’ve stated, your aim is to glorify love and lovemaking as created by God and expressed by humans in sex, talk about it!

Because in the act of assigned, obligatory, and—frankly—divisive screwing, it’s really difficult to bring glory to God or honest communication between humans.

File this one under “Sudden realizations that my ‘Voyage of Self-Discovery’ is not quite over yet,” “Lengthy explications of the things I’m learning on that ‘Voyage,’” and “Fulfilling a compulsive need to satisfy the voyeurs at the gates.”

Maybe, in me, it’s a fundamental misunderstanding of an extremely simple yet remarkably complex subject. Maybe it’s a defence mechanism of sorts. Maybe it’s denial, delirium, or delusion. Or, of course, maybe I’m right, at least when it comes to me. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m preparing you for a somewhat radical statement on my part, and here it is:

I don’t fall in love.

Which is not to say that I don’t feel love, that I don’t have the capacity for love, or that I don’t want to. I just don’t fall in love.

For me, whether or not to be “in love” with a specific person is a conscious choice, though I’ll grant it’s a much harder choice to unmake than to make: it’s easier, that is, to not love than to stop loving.

I think, on some level, I known this about myself for a long time. But here’s the part that new to me. Just because I don’t fall uncontrollably “in love,” don’t get the idea that I think I don’t fall for women. Because I do.

But that’s not love. It’s physical, intellectual, and emotional attraction to be sure, but it’s not love.

That’s what makes it difficult, though, because when I “fall for” someone, it’s pretty clear, almost immediately, that I’ve fallen for her because she’s someone I could love, given time and opportunity. But it is not love—unbidden, sudden, and immediate. That is precisely what I don’t do.

(And that I don’t is, perhaps, why I find sudden, lightening-bolt “falling in love” untrustworthy in others; but that’s another issue, entirely.)

I tell myself that it’s better—more accurate?—to think of it this way. To realize that the sudden rush, the unexpected feeling, is attraction; attraction on any combination of a number of levels, to be sure, but attraction, not love. And thinking of it this way doesn’t impact what I do when confronted with attraction; except that it leads me to not make sudden, rash, and untrustworthy declarations of love.

I still do sappy, silly, romantic things (and sometimes outright stupid things) in the pursuit of relationships with those women whom I find attractive. Or I still suffer in (near, though certain of my friends would probably beg to differ) silence when there are overwhelming and undeniable reasons not to pursue those relationships. I don’t, that is, act any differently when I “fall” than those who “fall in love.” Well, except that I’m not in a mad rush to say (or hear) the three little words, nor do I get in ferocious hurry to slap the “girlfriend” label on anyone. But otherwise, yeah, I do silly, sappy, romantic, and stupid as well as the next guy, I think.

Lately—and perhaps always, if I want to take a really dim view of the situation—the stupid seems to be a the top of the list, because I’ve got a spectacular (craptacular?) record of falling for the wrong women (or, maybe, falling for them at the wrong time).

Maybe I have gotten to know me pretty well in the past year or so.

I joked in a post about language that “Singular, Plural, Collective” would be a funny title for a post about relationships, though that post was not one. For the past couple of days, that very small joke has stuck with me, and I’ve been thinking about singularity, plurality, and collectiveness in terms of romantic relationships. It’s not quite the same as it is with language (except that it kinda is), but it’s an interesting way to look at the issues involved, I think.

The singular of relationships, I think we all understand. We’ve all been single in our lives, and sometimes we’re happily so and at other times we reflect on how much singleness sucks. Sometimes, that is, it’s great to live life as an I—not being beholden or responsible to anyone else in or for the day-to-day reality of life and the mundane tasks that accompany that reality. Other times, it would be great to cook for two, to argue (not seriously) over what movie to watch on Saturday night, and to share some warmth in the night against, say, October’s promise of impending winter.

Yeah, that, we all get.

But plural and collective are probably a little different, and more difficult to understand and differentiate from each other.

From my own experience, I’ve been single for most of the past two years. But there have been times within that span—and a while before the start of that span, too, I think—in which I’ve been “in a relationship” where I was part of something plural. I’m talking about the beginning (and, I think, ending) parts of relationships where I is replaced in our minds by you & I. In those times and places, we are not “two, alone” but “two, together.” In those times and places, I am still an I, and you are still your own I, but you and I make time and space, and expend energy and effort, to bring those Is together. But you and I also have times and spaces in which we are still separate; in this stage (or type) of relationship, it seems to me, you and I keep the good parts of singleness, while banishing the parts that suck to a dark corner. I can still be me, you can still be you, as each of us is as an individual, but you and I are also together—neither faces the world, or the cold of winter’s nights, alone.

Collective, though, is the point in a relationship where you & I becomes we. The point at which we each choose to give up some of our I-ness because we’re pretty sure we like who we are together better than we like I alone, or even I with you. This move, I think, is the unspoken impulse behind the relationship question “Where is this going?”

It’s also, I think, among the scariest decisions we can make. It’s a hard plunge to take, especially in the grown-up world of the once-bitten (or multiply-bitten). And yet, many times, we’re all too eager take that plunge. Or we think our respective yous (of our you & I relationships) are more eager than they really are, or maybe, just maybe, those yous do apply pressure.

I’m of the mind, lately, though, that there’s nothing wrong with a you & I relationship, a relationship in which you are you and I am me, and you and I are letting a level of we-ness happen naturally, unfold as it will, become what it wants to become when it wants to become it.

I think that the problem in many (especially new) relationships is that we’re uncomfortable being plural. Two together, after all, have two lives to manage—two of everything, really—and that’s difficult. And, for any number of reasons, we think we have to rush to the we—maybe because we want our happily ever after, and maybe just because it’s what we do, in our culture. We don’t give our plurality time to grow and evolve into a collective; we jump to that collective point, instead.

And, historically speaking, I’m as guilty as anyone of this. I have, at times in the past, wanted to jump ahead. But not recently. Of late, I’m happy with the idea of being in a relationship that is best defined as “you & I, together.” And giving that relationship time to grow and change and evolve—to transform from plural to collective, if it’s going to. And I’ve been more concerned with “Where is the relationship?” as a question than “Where is the relationship going?”

Of course, I’m in no way speaking from present (like at this very moment, today) experience, here. Yesterday, I stayed two hours longer at work than I had planned, and I’m making a trip to North Carolina this weekend at pretty much the spur of the moment—with no one but myself to answer to on either score. But last night, I cooked dinner for one and put an extra blanket on the bed to ward off the cold. I’m experiencing both the benefits and suckitude of singularity, right now.

I’m not, though, in a huge hurry to get to that collective stage, either. Don’t get me wrong, I want it to happen, but I want it to happen, not to be forced.

But, of course, one has to be plural first.

“I’m headed for my love, I’ve gotta go
I’m heading for my home in Ohio”
–Saving Jane, “Ohio”

“Home is where the heart is,” or so the folk wisdom tells us. I’ve written on many previous occasions in the past few months about my desire to come home, to get back to Ohio, and about the way I’ve come back to myself in a lot of ways over the past year or so. I’m clearly an Ohioan at heart, and there are clearly a number of other things I’ve been learning and relearning in terms of knowing myself, in terms of knowing my mind, in terms of knowing my heart.

To me, there is just as clearly a relationship between homes and hearts. If home is, in fact, where the heart is, I think it follows that “home” is that place we build in our hearts. And the people who help us to build that sense of home are the people whom we also invite into our hearts.

Hearts, that is, like homes—like houses, anyway—have doors. And it’s amazing to me, if I stop to think about it, how many doors a heart can have, particularly in the romantic sense.

After all, the families we grew up in are pretty much built-in to our heart-homes; parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews are all part of that sense of home, of belonging, intrinsically. But we’re programmed, at least socially, to be involved romantically with one person at a time. It probably doesn’t surprise us that we have doors available for, and open to, many friends. But when it comes to lovers, to partners, one at a time is the generally accepted rule.

Which is why it surprises me that there should be more than one door. It would make logical sense, in this metaphor, if each heart-home had one door for romantic love, and if we would each keep that door locked up tight, until someone—that special someone, the right someone—found the key. And, if that someone decided to—or was asked to—give that key back, that the door would be shut and locked tight again. Until the next someone. Makes sense, doesn’t it?

But that’s not how it works, is it?

At least for me, I’ve found that there are several such doors to my heart, and that each person who’s ever been let in has not found the key to a single door, but has found—or made—her own door. And when those relationships have ended (as all of my relationships, to date, have), it’s been up to me to determine what to do with those doors.

Believe me, some of them have been much easier to close, to lock, to remodel out my heart, than others.

I’m not going to name names, and I can’t even give a precise number, because there are at least two cases in which I don’t know whether to count them or not: there was (is?) a strong emotional connection, but there never was, nor will be, a “relationship” to go with it (true and deep platonic love makes this whole thing even weirder).

But I will say this: If you’re among my constant readers, you know that the last year or so has been, in large part, for me, a quest to know my own heart (and mind, sure). I’ve learned that I’m looking for a place to belong, and as much as that sense of home is tied to geography, I’ve found it. But of course, I’m looking for that heart-home, too—and I think on some level we all are. In exploring that idea, though, over the past several months (particularly the three that have elapsed since I remedied my geographical mistake of 2007), I’ve learned something important.

My heart has had too many open doors, and among them they were letting in a very unhealthy draught.

I realized, too, that most of the open doors, I had propped that way myself—and made a decision to keep them open when there was no real, sane, legitimate reason to do so. Some kind of hope, maybe, the kind that springs infernal, as I’m fond of saying. But not real hope, not real hope for real love, a real sense of home. Nope, not that kind of hope.

And the chilly draughts those doors let in were making me sick—sick at heart. For a while now, I’ve known something had to be done about that. But, I told myself, I just wasn’t ready to do it, I wasn’t ready to tour that heart-home and at least close and lock all the doors, if not brick them over. In time, though, that excuse grew weaker, sounded hollower in my own ears.

So I did it. Without even consciously knowing I was doing it, I did it, and I did it conscientiously. There is now no draught. There is now no malaise, except perhaps the lingering pangs of healing. But that’s to be expected, I suppose.

The doors are all closed. They’re all locked. The keys are hidden or thrown away. There are surely, though, also unfound doors. Doors that will open, when the time is right, and—as has been my experience—close, and lock, and remain that way when the time is right, as well.

At least one—and probably more—of those unfound doors will reveal itself, in time, I’m sure.

This is the post that was intended to be the second, not sixth, post today. The one that I apologized, several posts back, to KAS for not posting second. What can I say? I guess I just had a lot more to say today than I thought I did; not surprising, I suppose, when I haven’t been posting as much in the last week and a half or so. So, anyway, here it is. It’s written both because it’s on my mind and in the spirit of “giving the people what they want”—the most popular category on the blog, of late, has been Dating and the most popular tag has been Relationships. But I won’t be breaking any blog rules; just sayin’.

I’m not much of one for the Hallmark holidays. I’ll admit, I like Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, days that give me an additional excuse and incentive to do nice things for my parents. Those, I like. But, other than those, I like my holidays real and/or religious and/or patriotic. Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter, I love. Memorial Day, Independence Day, and Labor Day are great. Hallowe’en rocks my world. But made-up holidays? Yeah, not so much.

I agree, wholeheartedly, with something that a friend said to me last winter, about Valentine’s Day: That the profusion of red, pink, and white that appear in all our stores, as if by magic, about the middle of January every year looks as if “Cupid got drunk and vomited.”

Of course, I do Valentine’s Day, when I’m in a relationship. Of course I do. It’s just something that we, in our culture, do, and it’s a great excuse to be romantic, to be more romantic than usual. And I’ll admit that I like doing Valentine’s Day, when I have a reason, a relationship. But I still, even then, don’t like the holiday itself.

I know, I know, you’re thinking, if you’ve read here a while, that this is relationship (or lack of relationship) bitterness building up over the space of the past two years, and backing up into the blog. And, maybe, to some, extent, you’d be right. But it’s not that, or not just that.

Yes, roughly two years ago (give or take a week), my (then) wife and I separated. I’ve chronicled that, and my working through it, pretty well here in the blog. What’s happened since then has been less vividly chronicled, though some of you reading may know it from outside the blog and some may have gleaned it here. The truth of the matter is, though, that my marriage, which for all intents and purposes, ended two years ago, was not my last relationship. In fact, I’ve had two relationships since then.

And, yes, those relationships are in the past tense. So maybe there is a little relationship bitterness backing up here, as regards the Hallmark holidays, but not much.

The reason that this comes up in my mind now, you ask? This past Saturday was the other Hallmark holiday dedicated to all things romantic and gushy: Sweetest Day.

While I can say that I “do” Valentine’s Day, I only have actual, vivid memories of “doing” Sweetest Day once. (I can’t say this was the only time I marked it, but it’s the only time it made a lasting impact on me, that I should remember it). That one time was in 1992.

That particular Sweetest Day was a fun double-date. It was a “house date,” and if you know me well enough to do the math (backing 16 years off my current age), you’ll understand that the house involved in the house date belonged to someone’s parents—the parents of my girlfriend at the time. But it was a house date, nonetheless. The guys (my buddy and I) brought flowers; the girls (the girlfriends, also buddies, if it’s possible to use that word for girls) cooked dinner. There were candles, and soft music, and my girlfriend’s parents and sister pretty much left us alone. I don’t remember much about after dinner that evening—it probably had something to do with a movie on the VCR or something similar. And, of course, the girls’ confession that they hadn’t actually cooked—my girlfriend’s mom had.

That’s the one Sweetest Day I actually remember, and it was sweet. Since then, I may have marked this day, “celebrated” it, but I doing so doesn’t stand out in my mind. I have a low-level awareness of when it comes around every year, but it’s not something I plan for, unlike Valentine’s Day, even when I am in a relationship. And quite honestly when I’m not in a relationship, it sneaks up on me. Like it did this year.

It was this past Saturday (for those of you, likely singletons like me, who missed it).

And, through the magic of social networking software, I was able to see a number of people marking and celebrating this day. Yep, Sweetest Day sneaked up on me this year, and Facebook told me when it arrived. And I saw a number of the people I know—those who are in relationships of various types—enjoying days with their lovers and beloveds, days of fun, frivolity, and romance.

These little reminders, apart from reminding me that I’m generally against the Hallmark holidays (particularly those dedicated to romance), actually made me smile though. I was reminded that love is real and that love is a happy thing. With each of these I saw, I smiled, particularly when they involved people whom I like a lot, whom I know well, and whose happiness makes me happy. One or two such instances in particular both made me smile and caught me a little off-guard—the moment of happiness that these little nudges caused for me honestly surprised me.

A surprising moment of happiness. Granted, fleeting. Mostly because Saturday was an emotionally weird day for me in a lot of ways—unrelated to romance and my love life—anyway. Probably mostly having to do with an unbelievable hangover and trying, throughout the day, to sleep that off, so that the revelations and these moments came to me in snippets.

But I’ll take a fleeting moment of happiness, for romance, for love—even if it’s happiness brought on by someone else’s happiness, romance, and love. A moment of happiness, even in the midst of a weird emotional day, is worth it.

And given that, this past Saturday was pretty sweet, as far as I’m concerned.