I asked a friend of mine what she did on Valentine’s Day:

“I walked to the corner store at 2 in the afternoon in pajamas, glasses, no makeup, hair in pigtails.  I went to the counter and asked the guy for some R&R Canadian Whiskey.  He handed me a fifth and I said, ‘Ohhhh yeah, I’m gonna need a half gallon.’  And then he just stared at me really sadly.”

It was my favorite love story of the day.

She isn’t sad or depressed, and I know she has guys swooning over her because she is a smokin’ hot babe and funny as shit, but let’s be real, that’s hilarious to envision.

My Valentine’s Day was a bit different.  I took care of two little kids (as I do each week) for the day.  When I arrived there in the morning, my 3 year old buddy was holding up a pink plate of heart-shaped goodies and yelled, “Hannah, will you be my Valentine?”

Simultaneously, every cookie and brownie slid off the plate and onto the floor.

He was stunned, I couldn’t stop laughing.  I replied with a “yes,” of course, and then ate all of the treats, floor grime and all.

Then I went to work and helped others have a magical and romantic evening out. Afterwards, I drank gin.

I’m not a Valentine’s pessimist.  It’s a fun Hallmark Holiday where we can finally show and tell people how much we love them.   I just can’t handle how cards are $4.99 a pop for red paper that says “I love you.”  I’ll fold some computer paper and ink out my weird emotions and hand it to you.  That shit’s free!

I also like the day because it’s my dog’s birthday.  He would be a Valentine’s puppy, that little lover.

As for today, it’s my 26th birthday.

Twenty six.  If you asked me ten years ago where I thought I’d be at the age of twenty six I would likely have said, “Married, maybe a couple kids, working, using my degree.”

Funny how life can demolish any plans you make. Hahaha! Oh life, you are hysterical.

In actuality, I could be married, I could have kids, I could have a degree, but when those opportunities began to creep up on me, I decided to run for the hills.  Today, I am a self-proclaimed commitmentphobe (one with a fear of commitment).

I have a friend who is constantly infuriated with me because I can’t make plans.  He’ll ask me days prior if I want to catch a flick, or at work if I want to grab a beer afterwards.  I always respond with “maybe” and if I do happen to commit, I usually freak out at the last minute and decide I don’t want to do anything at all and cancel.

Maybe twenty six will bring about a sense of calm.  I already feel more relaxed about it.  I love saying, “I’m twenty six,” it feels like almost a mature age to be.  I may even start taking myself seriously. (Bahahahahaha!)

I realize I tend to cling to youth like a decadent dessert that I just don’t want to finish.  I leave one more bite because I can’t stand for it to be gone.

Now trust me, I don’t think that because I’m now on the upper end of my mid-twenties that suddenly I’ll be bereft of my youthful antics and must become starchy and boring, because I’m pretty sure I’ll be overly immature for many years to come.  Instead, I feel a bit of assurance.  I’ve survived what could likely be the first big chunk of my life.  That’s a pretty big feat!

It may be safe to say I don’t have to be such a spaz about planning my life, because clearly, none of it has happened the way I foresaw, and it’s still turning out to be pretty rad.

Besides, I may not have a degree, but I am freaking amazing at polishing glasses.

So bring it on, twenty six!  I’m already very comfortable with you, so let’s boogy.

To Cooper, To Love, To Black History Month, Michael Jordan’s birthday, and clearly to me,

Cheers!