A Valentine's Day story. If you want one.

Since I'm living in Prague, I thought for once I'd be able to escape that God-foresaken tradition - the most dreaded of dreaded holidays - St. Valentine's Day. As it turns out, the 20,000 or so ex-pats who are residing in the Czech Republic can't seem to live without their message hearts and rose petalled bric-a-brac. So, many boutiques in the city have been invaded by Chucky Doll-esque cupids as they are annually in the United States. For Pete's sake, can't they let go of that plastic celebration and allow the Czech people keep their own culture? Halloween and Thanksgiving are one thing, but Valentine's Day is on an entirely different level.

While pondering this Western infiltration, I had a stunning revelation. I'm done with romantic crap. I've spent the past 26 years being a pathetic, sentimental nit-wit schmuck - you know, the type that fantasizes about kisses in the rain and moonlit walks on any number of beaches (insert other assorted gag-inducing schmaltz here) - and what has it gotten me? Crap, and absolute crap, for the bulk of my dating "career." Yes, I say "career," as the quality of most dates is on par with unsuccessful job interviews or auditions for the starring roles in high school musicals that I never seemed to snag (hey, I thought of this metaphor BEFORE Carrie Bradshaw! Go me).

My flatmate and I had a discussion yesterday about how many of the personal milestones (during which most people meet their future spouses) have already passed us by. The college days are but a distant memory. That 'swell' first job in the big city has come and gone. And don't even mention high school - that's ancient history.

So what's left? We've got only a handfull of choices: the Metro, the Internet, or succumbing to the advances of a sweaty, drunken sleazeball who reeks of stale cigarettes in one of the many crummy ex-pat bars here. (Side note: Beth and I also decided that we'd have to make the smoking issue less of a dealbreaker if we want to attract European men. Sigh).

So that's it. I won't be bitter; it's better to embrace your shortcomings. I must find a way to relish my fate as a "terminal bachelor." (Note: "bachelor" sounds considerably more glamourous than "singleton" or "male spinster.")