Why I Don't Hate Valentine's Day Even Though I'm Single

I love love.

I know, that's so . . . whatever, but I do. Though there's a part of me that often sees things in hues of blue, I'm still entranced by the prospect of passion.

I'm single. Everybody's getting married, I'm round three for bridesmaid, everyone has a boyfriend, I don't, I'm single, boo-hoo-hoo, blah, blah, blah. I'm single. But I love love. I'm a romantic. Yearning and sighing and hoping and melancholy and optimism and wishing and patience and longing are all a part of it.

This is what I know about me: I'm headstrong, I'm indecisive, I'm impulsive, and I'm emotional. This makes not a good combination when mixed with not the right guy. I feel badly for the guys that somehow got it in their heads that they were interested in me and went for it. Sometimes I feel badly for me when I think of the times that my heart literally hurt. Sometimes I wish things had worked out. But I don't feel badly that thus far, nothing has worked out. Each experience has left me a little wiser and has helped me understand myself a little more and each time I've come a little closer to discovering what it is that I really and truly desire.

This is what I also know about me: I'm young, I'm intelligent, I have a toothy grin, a boisterous laugh, and a lot going for me. I'm hopeful. I'm hopeful that someone, someday will appreciate what I have to offer and will love me in spite of me, and that I will love him, as he is, in return.

Valentine's Day gives me the same sensation that I feel when a child approaches me with outstretched arms. She isn't mine. I have no children of my own. But I can't help but to embrace her.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life (Proverbs 13:12).