Thirteen years ago I met one of those dark, handsome, brooding guys who makes you sweat just by looking at you, who you break all the rules for, who your mother finds undeniably handsome and irreparably flawed, and who your father instantly hates.
We met in January.
Jump ahead to February, the fourteenth to be exact. Valentine's Day. This guy had no car, so asked me to drive the 45 minutes to his house so that we could be together on such a romantic holiday.
So I did.
And when I got to his house, (I had a wrapped gift for him--a book--and a red rose . . . yeah, I was totally in love) I knocked on the door, and knocked, and knocked some more, and then pounded on the door. No one answered. I tried to go inside. The door was locked.
So, in spite of the really cold weather, I sat in my car and froze my butt off for an hour, (surely I'd gotten the time wrong, right? He must have said 6:30, not 5:30) until someone finally came home. Was it The Guy? Nope. His roommate. Roomie let me into the house and cringed--LITERALLY CRINGED--when he saw the gift and rose in my hands. I tried to ignore the bile and fury and embarrassment surging through me and looked around.
My dear, handsome, mysterious boyfriend was gone. So were his snowboard, boots, gloves, coat, hat, goggles . . . you get the picture.
So, yeah--worst Valentine's Day ever.
Wanna know the funny part? I married him four months later (and we're still married). And I also know exactly how it feels to be stood up--perfect knowledge for a writer, right? But I still have to ask myself . . . was the knowledge worth the price?
What's your worst Valentine's Day? And don't be shy!