Side by Side by Single: Facing Valentine's Day differently!

By J. Corbett Holmes

"We could send each other flowers to the office!" my friend Jackie suggested. For a brief moment I considered the proposal, as it was the only one I would receive for Valentine's Day this year. And, although it was meant as a supportive gesture, visions of a life surrounded by too many cats and piles of old newspapers quickly perished that flowery thought. After I hung up the phone I pondered my singleness for a moment, just staring out my bedroom window. While I deliberated about what to do with my solitary situation, a smile came to my face as I was reminded of a perfect, but very unexpected, Valentine -- one who, in the sanctity of a small, dark room, turned my heart in another direction.

Last Valentine's Day, with no new prospects in sight, I decided to pamper myself and have a facial to lift my spirits. Having someone fuss over me, even if I had to pay for it, at least held the assurance of improved skin. So I made an appointment and forged through the Friday traffic, determined to get in my face time. Once laid to rest in the dark, semi-private room, I exchanged the usual banter with Myra, my facialist. As she effortlessly performed her extractions, I soon began to feel the inauguration of a new attitude being brought to the surface of my lonely heart. Clean pores would promote an uncontaminated mind -- one free of bouquets of flowers, boxes of chocolate, romantic bubble baths, and candle lit dinners; thoughts without cards that said things about the power of having a partner.

When all things unwelcome had been removed from my face, I was set to rest under a catcher's mask-like contraption. Through the use of electro-waves, it was meant to drag a fresh rehabilitated appearance back to my facial façade. Next Myra left me alone to meander mindlessly. But as I lay there buzzing back to beautiful, I struggled to think about anything but Valentine's Day. I thought about various types of copper sinks for the bathroom renovation to my house. I deliberated about watching movies and eating junk food in bed all weekend -- my own version of PNP -- pizza and porn. I considered all the fuss the retailers were making over this "special" holiday for lovers. And, since I was lying down in a dark room, I fantasized about romantic sexual liaisons with various boys from the gym. But, the more I tried to forget the occasion at hand, my predicament with VD continued to remind me there would be no intimate interludes this year. No gushy cards. No make out sessions in front of the fireplace. No marathon lovemaking. No partner to admire my glowing complexion. I would be alone.

Eventually Myra returned to my dark semi-private room. But, this time she wasn't alone. She had brought a woman with her to occupy the bed next to me -- my roommate at the facial fraternity. As they entered the space, conversations regarding the weather, traffic and everyday well being were exchanged. Naturally, I could hear the conversation -- from beneath my mask. Oddly, my new roommate's voice sounded familiar -- one I'd heard before, and one I felt I knew personally. Her tone and choice of words were distinct yet casual. They immediately put me at ease. From within my cocoon of curtains, I listened carefully, altering my breath to keep it from interrupting, as I waited to catch a clue, a name to my game of curiosity. My new roomie's demeanor was a mixture of lovable and sassy, and I suspected it was the signature to her fame. She kept saying things like "Oh, thanks honey!" and " God, honey, this is just what I need before I have to get on a that long flight to Australia!"

"Hmmm," I thought, "she doesn't have an Australian accent, and it's too sexy to be Olivia Newton John." They chatted on. I waited to capture my clue. "Yeah, I'll be back in two weeks for my L.A. show!" The voice was lyrical. Maybe she's a singer? I tried to marry her intonation to some of my favorite songs, but I got stuck on Olivia's "I Honestly Love You," and gave up.

Then, it happened! "Sandra, are you comfortable? Do you need anything?" Myra asked. "No, thanks, honey, I'm good." Subsequently it hit me! It was Sandra Bernhard! Then Myra left, and we were alone. Just me and Sandra, having some private face (cleaning) time together. And as I lay beside her, my half-naked body motionless, my brain was racing!

I thought about how long she'd been part of my life. Our introduction: a smallish theater in New York's East Village; her Without You I'm Nothing show. I remembered our night together at the Love Ball, when she skillfully taunted the waspy uptown ladies with her welcome-to-the-party-now-strip technique. All the songs she'd serenaded me with as she blazed new frontiers for gay America. She was the first and is still the only comedian I've seen in her foundations. And now, with Valentine's Day looming, she was lying beside me with just a thin, white curtain between us. I felt relaxed and glad she was there, even though we were silent.

As I stared at the ceiling through my binoculars of cotton gauze and electric catcher's mask, I suddenly realized that because she was famous, complete strangers like me knew endless personal tidbits about her life. Her love of Courtney, expressing herself with Madonna, having a baby, the list was endless. I wondered if she was thinking about me? If she'd listened to my conversation for any points of interest? I wondered if she was wearing a bra or if she was bare-chested like I was? If she felt weird and exposed lying next to a complete stranger? If she thought our situation was funny-ha ha, and was considering it for a new routine? Or maybe, she was just sleeping and hadn't even noticed I was there.

While the electrodes vibrated life back into my face, over and over in my head I compiled a list of things I wanted to say to her. "I love your work!" Too general. "I think you're amazing!" No -- too stupid! "How old is your daughter now?" Maybe too personal -- especially from a strange man in a dark room. And, so I ended up back at, "I think you're amazing!" I said it over and over in my head, just like one of her routines.

"Stand back and hand the ham sandwich to glamorous Nancy" ... I think you're great! ... "Stand back, and hand the ham sandwich to glamorous Nancy" ... I think yoouur great! ... "Stand back and hand the ham sandwich to glamorous Nancy!" But, because of our brand of intimacy, nothing sounded right. So I quietly got dressed and left without uttering one gushing word. My love would remain a secret.

The next day, I surveyed the outcome of my epidermal excavation. Although the results were glowing, I recognized how 44 years of life had materialized on my face one wrinkle at a time. There were those caused by work, others from the sun, and I'd imagine a few from old boyfriends. Some were deeper than others. They were the ones around my eyes; the ones I hoped were brought on from too much laughing. And then, naturally, I recalled my funny valentine, Sandra.

Although I had begun that Valentine's Day weekend feeling soggy and alone, I'd actually received the ultimate Valentine. I had intimate, quality "face time" with someone I'd loved for years, someone who could make me laugh at the drop of ... well ... of her dress, someone who understood the challenges of a same-sex relationship, someone I could be relaxed with in a dark room devoid of the necessity to speak, and most importantly, someone like me, who understood the importance of good skin care.

When I think of that special time alone with my funny Valentine Sandy (I like to call her Sandy), other thoughts arise. Distorted, retail-infused thoughts of what Valentine's Day is supposed to mean. With the flurry of cards, the boasting of fragrant bouquets, and the sharing of sumptuous romantic dinners, the media, and naturally the retail community, continue to paint what they hope to be a profitable picture of love. A love that requires being in a relationship to be happy. A love that requires spending money to prove your love. And a love that has no place for singles on February 14th. But do we always know where love comes from? Or what it looks like? Or for that matter, who it might be coming from?

Society has been infused with, and unfortunately defined by, the grandeur of buying diamonds, penning out gushy thoughts, and bequeathing to one another box after box of bon bons to show their affections. But sometimes you can love someone and they might not even know it. And if loving them makes you happy -- even if you're single -- isn't that what Valentine's Day is really all about? But I guess it all depends on how you decide to "face" Valentine's Day. All I know is ... Sandra, without you, I'm nothing!