By SUSANNAH CLARK
I’ve been planning this Valentine’s Day column since the first “Susannigans” was published last September. For months I have been storing not-so-subtle tactics to express my predictable and clichéd frustrations as they come to a climax on Feb. 14th—Singles’ Awareness Day. I was excited to rant and stab at my past year of rejection and almosts.
Then this week happened.
On Monday I joined the rest of the campus in welcoming former President Clinton—aka. my biggest celebrity crush. Empowered and inspired, I ventured home to Arlington, Va. on Tuesday to vote. Less than an hour after practicing my civic duty, I was involved in a traumatic car accident on the ride back to school, my third collision in less than a year. (I was only the driver for one).
During my thirteen-hour wait in the emergency room at Fairfax INOVA Hospital—my broken nose and fractured hand were a low priority on the icy night that brought victims from 17-car-pile-ups and more—I came to the familiar conclusion that all of my romantic qualms are completely in vain.
Valentine’s Day, with all of its lonely and bitter connotations, is still just another day of existing to be grateful for. As I impatiently waited for care, curled in my mother’s lap, I watched stretcher by stretcher zoom by, each patient’s trauma bloodier than the last. Considering a broken hand, nose, and spirit are the worst blows I’ve taken after three head-on collisions, I’m pretty damn lucky to be alive. I may not have Cupid looking after me, but there’s definitely some kind of guardian angel perched on my shoulder.
So as I shelf away my contrived “I bet you think this column is about you, don’t you” attitude, I have replaced my efforts for self-serving justice with heart-shaped perspective.
I’m single. I’m 19 years old. It’s not the end of the world. It’s actually the beginning.
Plus, wearing a cast on my arm could make for some great opportunities for cute boys to hold the door for me.
And I still got to touch Bill Clinton.