East Coast/West Coast

I’m wearing gingham and pearls, returning from two “dates” (read: meeting with my Pre Major Advisor and a brainstorming session with my godsend of a writing professor) and I’m feeling good.

Today is Valentine’s Day.

I returned to my room to find flowers in front of my door. I made a stupid grunt, expecting them to be for one of my roommates. 

Nope. Fresh and bright and wonderful smelling, they were addressed to me.

I didn’t think they were from a gentleman suitor. I would have been surprised if they were. I was correct in my assumption that they’re a gift from home- my mother sent them; I love her.

I think that every Valentine’s Day leading up to this one, or maybe every day leading up to this one, has been a constant search for some other heart to hold on to. Maybe I’m just being melodramatic/romantic/lame, thinking that everything leading up to this moment in time of me picking up the flowers outside of my door was a constant search for “true love” or just “love” or just a guy.

But when I smiled before I knew who sent me the flowers, not expecting them to be from the boy, or any other boy for that matter, but rather my mom, this was a momentous occassion. A watershed. The point in the movie right before the closing credits where a great indie song starts playing and you know that the female protagonist is going to be alright.

I’m finally realizing that I’m wonderful at being independent. Maybe this is the cry of a girl who’s never been on an “official date,” or maybe it’s me growing. I’m learning how to love myself and appreciate being in my own company. I can finally dress myself, pull my hair back, and ride my bike knowing that the people I’m passing think that I have it all together.

(I don’t and won’t for a while. But I’m wearing pretty underwear and smiling an awful lot, so that has to account for something.)