Lifestyle

Whenever I spend time wandering the city during Valentine’s Day, I always see groups and groups of people taking pictures together and meeting at one specific spot in Nolita – in front of a small black brick wall painted with small red hearts all over its surface. For friends, families, and lovers all alike, the wall sparks a sense of excitement and romantic charm on this day of the year – serving as a reflective backdrop of the love they’re celebrating.

Yet, with all the attention we give the wall on this day, it almost seems as though the wall is less significant during the rest of the year, when we aren’t celebrating Valentine’s Day. So, while my favorite little wall in the city always makes me smile, it also makes me wonder:

Why is it that we only dedicate this one holiday to celebrate love, when Hallmark and Godiva tell us to? What about the rest of the year?

On Valentine’s Day, we become so used to associating the holiday with dark chocolate, chilled champagne, strawberries, red roses, perfectly shaped hearts we find in greeting cards – and the list goes on. But if we take a step forward and look at the wall more closely, perhaps our sugary perceptions of the holiday become merely surface-level.

The red hearts on the wall are of different sizes, face multiple directions – some upright and some upside down, and have cracks in them from the bricks on which they’re painted. To me, these hearts are what honestly represent the meaning behind Valentine’s Day – much more so than the bouquets and confections we become so attached to on this one day each year.

As the wall vividly conveys, love can make us feel big, love can make us feel small, love can seem twisted and turned and make us feel as if our worlds have been turned upside down, love can make us float on air, and sometimes, love can even cause our own hearts to crack a bit – just like the hearts painted on these bricks.

Sometimes, we seem to forget these truths as we focus on the sweet stuff, but perhaps these are the true qualities we should embrace on Valentine’s Day – the traits and textures of love that make us feel and think and reflect, the ones that make us grow and bring us closer together and make us stronger, that make us human and make us love harder and more honestly than we ever knew we could.

As we reflect upon the brick wall on Mott Street and the truths about love it represents, let’s celebrate the authentic beauty of Valentine’s Day. Let’s embrace all its beautiful cracks and imperfections, and break down our own walls – to soak in the love that surrounds us in its most raw and honest form, today and always.

Love,

Just like every other day, I began today with a caffeine fix to jump-start my morning. Just like every other day, I ordered my usual almond milk latte – extra hot. And just like every other day, the barista asked me if I’d like to take my coffee to go or to stay. Normally, I take my coffee with me and drink it on the go as I run my errands and go about my day. But yesterday morning, I had nowhere to be. I didn’t make any early plans, knowing I’d still be recovering from a turkey-induced hangover, so I decided to sit down, drink my latte there at the coffee shop, and take my time.

While waiting for the barista to make my drink at the counter, I scanned the room and searched for an open table. As I paused and looked around for a place to sit, I also noticed all the people around me:

I saw a group of friends sitting and laughing together, an elderly couple sneaking kisses to one another, a mother playing peek-a-boo with her baby and rocking his stroller, a business man working on his laptop in the corner, a girl with blue highlights in her hair and a tattoo of a star on her wrist writing in a journal, a woman silently reading her book – seemingly holding back tears, and one of the baristas singing and dancing while he was preparing everyone’s coffees.

And in those few brief moments that felt like time had pleasantly frozen for me, I was once again reminded of so many things I’m grateful for – like laughter, friends, family, company, solitude, tears – the power to fight through them and the power to let them fall, self-expression, art, the infinite color blue, the stars, the sky, books, words, silence, music, dance, kisses, the ways that we’re all different, the ways we’re all the same, and the chance to be alive to experience all of these things.

Finally, my coffee was ready. Rather than the usual paper cup with a lid on top I normally take with me to go, the barista served me my coffee in a steaming, open-faced porcelain mug that framed a design she so artfully crafted with its foam. I looked down at my beautifully bare latte, and saw a milky white heart floating there, gazing back at me.

I thanked her with a smile and she thanked me back with a smile.

Before I took my first sip and claimed the open table in the back, I looked down again at my latte that held the universal symbol for love at its center. That’s another thing I’m grateful for: love – whether it’s around us, within us, or between the palms of our hands, staring back at us.

Of course, the hearts in our lattes inevitably fizzle and fade. But even after we leave the coffee shop, we’ve still got the ones beating vivaciously inside of us, giving us beautiful life, to feel the most grateful for.

A belated Happy Thanksgiving to all – and much love,

When I was a young boy, my mom and I would always garden together. Every weekend, we would go out and buy packs of different seeds and rush home to plant them in our backyard. Over time, we grew strawberries, plums, apples – and the list goes on. But for some reason, I most vividly remember growing tomatoes together.

Each morning before I’d leave the house for school, I would run outside to check on our plants, hoping our tomatoes had ripened overnight. Of course, that was never the case – but I never lost hope. I would look closely and examine the exact spot where we planted the seeds, right next to our basil plants, confident that my focused stare would pressure my plant into growing more quickly.

As time went on, I would notice that the tiniest sprout that first peeked out of the soil kept growing taller and fuller with more and more tiny leaves appearing around it. Soon enough, the initial hint of green transformed into a juicy, red-orange tomato – and the time would finally come for us to pluck the plump prize of our patience from its stem.

I’d rush to the kitchen, juggling the fruits of our labor in the small palms of my hands, holding them closely against my chest so they wouldn’t fall. After washing them under the faucet, I’d lay them all out on the black marble counter and pat them dry with a paper towel, ever so delicately.

But when the time would come to decide what to do with our new tomatoes, I was always hesitant. My mom would come up with different ideas, enthusiastically suggesting we chop them into little pieces to mix into a salad, cut them into thin slices to add into a sandwich, or even cook them into a delicious tomato-basil sauce to go with her famous angel hair pasta – my favorite. But even so, I didn’t want to let go of my tomatoes. In an attempt to provide me with some heartfelt clarity, she would remind me that if we don’t eat our fresh tomatoes, they would eventually rot: “We should enjoy them now because we can always plant more tomorrow,” she’d say. And she was right; we continued to grow tomatoes and pick basil from our garden and cook them into different tasty dishes that I would eat with so much pride and satisfaction.

Yet, as the years went by and the seasons would pass, my mom and I would garden less and less frequently. Little Daniel seemed to outgrow his favorite ritual; growing up seemed to take too much of his time. Now, about a decade and a half later since then, things have changed, as they normally do over time. Garden views have faded into cityscapes, school lunches have turned into conference room meetings, classmates have been replaced by colleagues, and now I prepare my own lunches to take to work with me.

Almost every weekend, I make a trip to the grocery store to purchase food for the coming workweek. Yesterday afternoon, however, I opted for an adventurous change of plans; rather than heading to Mrs. Green’s market on Hudson Street like I normally do, I visited the Union Square Farmers’ Market. As I weaved through the different stands, I let my senses guide me: aromas of olive oil, rosemary, lavender soap, and freshly baked bread wafted through the air, as emerald apples, blood red cherries, and blazing yellow sunflowers filled my sight. I kept walking through the market, crossing all my items off my mental shopping list. I was about to head home – shopping bags slipping through my fingers – until an all too familiar scent waltzed around my nose, triggering an unexpected sense of nostalgia. I turned around – “Fresh Basil” was written across a black board in white chalk. And of course, next to the fragrant basil, were endless containers of bright red tomatoes.

I was suddenly transported back to Los Angeles, to my family’s garden next to my mom, as we planted our tomato seeds together – awaiting their ripened arrival until we crafted them into lunchtime masterpieces that I’d show off to my friends at school. Now, more than ever, as I stood facing these visual remnants of my childhood, that time feels like a memory more distant than ever before – a memory that has remained tucked away in the corners of my mind – until yesterday, when I was pleasantly reminded of its existence.

For years, I have always imagined what my adult life would turn out like – an evolving vision that began sprouting during the garden days, that has stuck with me since, as I continue to explore the Concrete Jungle. I’m finally living a version of that life that I always envisioned – as a “grown up,” as some people call it, living in New York City, with a job that beholds endless promise and possibility, and the capacity to feel and think and love and evolve as an individual.

But now, as I reflect back, I realize I didn’t end up here over night. Just like my beloved plants, rooted eternally in my childhood, time patience, hard work, and belief in my potential to grow have all collectively contributed in cultivating the man I am today.

As it seems, life is as cyclical as its moments are temporary: things change, (as they should), and reappear in new shapes and forms over time. With that, nothing is instantaneous. Life is a process – and the milestones we reach result from the steps and moments that have previously lead up to them. So, regardless of where we end up, we must always remember our roots. We ripen and blossom into the people we become because we begin as seeds first, and we grow – just as the independent man in the city first started out as the boy in the garden with his mother by his side.

As time continues to pass and I’m faced with obstacles, challenges, and my own fear of change, I try and channel little Daniel from the garden, the boy who had conviction in his craft even when he had his doubts. I know he’s still there inside – because he vividly reminds me of where I started, even when I have no idea where I’m going. Perhaps, therefore, if we acknowledge our past and embrace our beginnings, we can rekindle that same authentic comfort and confidence in who we are as individuals as life goes on, as the seasons change, and as we continue to grow into the people we are meant to become.

As my t-shirt affirms, “I was born in the 90s” – 1994 to be exact, which means that I am twenty-two years old. While so many qualities about us are subjective based on the impressions we give off, our age is a fixed personal trait that just isn’t up for debate. No matter how hard we try to defy this reality, we can’t change time. The clock can’t be sped up, as “fast-forward” isn’t an option, nor can it be slowed down; the fountain of youth that we pray will drench us forever is bound to drain eventually.

Now, I know you’re probably thinking to yourself, “Who is this kid to tell us about aging? He just broke into his early twenties. What does he know about growing older?” It’s true – I’m fairly new to the world of adulthood. But, living between New York and LA, I’ve firsthand witnessed and experienced the undeniable impact that our age can have on so many aspects of life.

Whether at a job interview for a marketing position or at a bar for a glass of wine, there have been countless occasions where I haven’t been taken seriously simply because I’m the youngest person in the room – where I’ve been looked down upon, questioned, and coddled too, time and time again by potential employers and bartenders alike. But I have reached a point in my life where I have no choice but to participate in the same social contexts as people older than me. And as a result, it seems as though I have to work harder to assert my presence to be acknowledged around the 30+ year olds around me.

On the other side of the spectrum, though, I have become more than used to seeing adults older than me in their 40’s, 50’s, and beyond working tirelessly to come across younger than they truly are. On one side of the coast, we’ve got New York’s resident fashion boys almost pushing 50 who just recently finished gallivanting across the city for Fashion Week, desperately trying to relive their young adult years atop the Standard Hotel at Boom Boom Room. And on the other side of the country in glamorous Los Angeles, we mustn’t forget our “ladies who lunch” who have probably consumed as much tuna tartar at Spago as they have Botox in the creases of their skin. Those attempts to come across younger are merely superficial; underneath the facial filler and vanity, our true ages are still in tact.

Not to be pessimistic – that’s not the kind of person I am at all; but the reason I speak from such a blunt perspective is because I too constantly feel caught in the age-obsessed world we live in that pressures us to conform to ageist standards. In our contemporary culture, we – myself included – often feel like we’re too young or too old, like we never hit the mark just right at the point in our lives that we’re at in comparison to the people around us.

While there’s realistically nothing we can do to truly change our age beneath the surface, I’m not suggesting that we millenials should complacently sit and allow those older than we are to view us as immature; there is nothing wrong with asserting our evolving maturity, even as young adults. And in regards to my more mature, seasoned adults out there, in my eyes, aging is not the same as growing old; it’s all in the way we look at it. What I do think ages adults dramatically is when they aggressively try to defy the progression of time, to turn back the clock to feel younger by parading around like teenagers numb in the face. Perhaps we must try and achieve a balance between these two extremes: a middle ground in which we uphold the timeless nature of our spirits while also accepting the inevitable points in our lives that we’ve reached, where we can praise how far we’ve come through the years and proudly refer to the cracks in our skin as “laughter lines” instead of “wrinkles.”

I admit, I too must remind myself to relish this stage in my life and embrace the reality that I am undeniably younger than many people; I have years and years ahead of me to be taken seriously as an experienced “adult.” After all, I stopped using a fake ID just a little over a year ago. Nevertheless, I’m certainly not a naïve “child” anymore either – a misconception that might prompt others to treat me as their inferior, simply for being younger than they are. I realize, however, that those older than I am do in fact have a leg up on me because of the abundance of experiences, knowledge, and wisdom they have under their belts. Age, therefore, shouldn’t necessarily be assessed by the elasticity of our skin or the crows’ feet beside our eyes. Aging transcends what we see in the mirror and serves as a vivid indicator of all that we’ve accomplished and endured in our lives so far.

Right now, my peers and I are toasting to fresh college degrees and exciting new job opportunities. In about a decade, we’ll probably be celebrating our engagements and marriages. And a few years after that, we may even witness our own children doing the same things we did when we were their age, as we then long to be in their shoes once again – and the cycle continues. Until then, I look up to those older than me who have gone through much more than I have at this point. But truth be told, the adults I choose to look up to are those who embrace their age rather than those who strive to defy or conceal that number.

What I’m trying to convey here is that age is not “just a number,” as the cliché goes – and that’s completely alright. In fact, our age is a very significant number that helps us gage where we honestly fit-in in this world – a number that we shouldn’t challenge or be ashamed of, but that we should respect and be proud of. Regardless of whether or not you were born in the 90s, (with or without a t-shirt to prove it), our age is a definite component of our being, innately characteristic to our identities and our experiences. The solid, unwavering nature of age itself might even urge us to become more in touch with our sense of self, to understand the time and space in which we exist. With that in mind, perhaps our inability to turn back the clock or jump forward in time beholds an authentic beauty in itself. Perhaps this reality, that we have no choice but to live in this moment, makes it all the more sensible to honor where we are in the timeline of our lives. Simply put, maybe a reason we can’t change our age is because we shouldn’t.

In theory, the concept of summer is like a bottomless mimosa special. Like the season itself, the cocktail boasts the perfect blend of sweet and savory, sparkling and smooth. With each sip and every cork popped off the bottle, we feel as though our bottomless mimosas will last forever – numbing us into a fantasy of never ending refills that keep on pouring until the end of time, as we’re sent off into a sun-kissed daze of oblivion. Yet, soon enough, the refills end, and the bottom of the glass finally becomes visible. The cocktail special inevitably fizzles to a finish – and, ultimately, so does summer.

In the heat of the moment, we never thought about what’s to follow after the refills: In the coming weeks, the sunny shades of orange of our clinking glasses will soon be replaced by the amber of the leaves that fall from the sky. The flaming sunsets that we gazed at all throughout happy hour will soon transition to fireplaces we cozy near with our porcelain mugs. But until then, we can enjoy our almond skin until it fades back to its natural shade, we can sift through our Polaroids that were once covered in sand, and we can savor those last drops of bittersweet orange juice that linger on our tongues as the season finally reaches its close for the year.

This year, it was the season of many things: it was the summer of blazing beach days and sparkling rooftops, the summer of morning hikes and midnight drives with the top down, the summer of stirring romances and cheap thrills, the summer of fresh discoveries and raw confessions, the summer of ambition, the summer of dance, the summer of love, the summer of adventure, and the summer of memories of a time that we’ll never get back, but that will come again in new shape, form, and flavor – just like we do as the time passes.

As we take our final sips of the season, we finally realize that all good things must come to an end. Whether happy hour, friendships, relationships, or the seasons themselves, some changes and conclusions are inescapable. Yet, at the same time, we must remember that life is cyclical; there will be more good things to come again, to toast and look forward to. Whether a fizzy mimosa on a breezy rooftop or hot cocoa beside a fireplace, there will always be another glass to raise, no matter the beverage.

Of course, summer, you will be missed. But as we prepare to welcome the new season, as we layer up and immerse ourselves in all that is autumn, and as we almost forget how a mimosa, (or a few), should taste, summer will approach us soon enough, once again, in all its infinite, bubbling glory.

Le Bain at The Standard, High Line – 848 Washington St, New York, NY 10014

Some things in life are inevitable, and Monday is one of those things. A day seemingly as bitter as the countless shots of espresso we drink to make it through, “Monday” has become synonymous with endless meetings, tedious tasks, and tiring errands. By this early point in the week already, stress is high and morale is low. Whether because the weekend is officially over, or because the rest of the week dauntingly awaits us, Monday is the day that we have learned to loathe.

In the midst of all that madness that is Monday, we typically end up feeling worn out, anxious, and even broken into pieces. But if we do to Monday what Monday does to us and break Monday itself apart, a glimmer of optimism shines through its cracks.

Break the word “MONDAY” in half, and we are left with “MON” and “DAY.” Based on the meager bit of French I remember from my time studying in Paris, I know that “mon” in French translates to “my” in English. If we keep this in mind and apply this translation to the word’s broken form, “Mon-day” translates to “my day.”

Ironically enough, from this point of view, our least favorite day that seems to consume us, becomes our very own. When we open our eyes and look at the word in fragments from a changed perspective, we are presented with the empowering opportunity to take ownership of our week and seize the day with confidence.

In this case, therefore, we can take note from our translation of “Monday.” Perhaps we too must feel broken in half and even shattered until we can discover the optimism, strength, power, and potential that we innately possess, that lies at our core.

So, friends, Happy Monday. I hope your espresso tastes sweeter than usual, and that today’s tasks don’t wear you down too hard. Because, as it seems, it’s a fresh week and a new day – and no matter where this day takes you, it’s yours.

Four years ago when I enrolled at NYU, people would always reluctantly tell me, “Are you sure you want to go there? NYU is such a big school. You’ll be such a small fish in a big sea…” And to be honest, at the start of my undergraduate career, they were right. I agreed with these people; I felt lost and shy in the overwhelming sea that is New York City – suddenly thrown into the deep-end with no choice but to swim aimlessly until I find my way. Initially, I was just a helpless little freshman whirling my way through my new life, hoping to make it through successfully without being eaten by sharks. And even though I took the plunge and made the move across the country, I was still terrified once I got there.

Now, however, I’ve just graduated proudly from NYU at Yankee Stadium with a bachelor’s degree and a one-way ticket to the real world. I no longer feel like the small, timid fish who just began to grow into his fins four years ago. Yesterday at the ceremony, I looked around me to my classmates, and rather than thousands of little fish, a triumphant sea of vivid violet washed over Yankee Stadium. Graduation caps soared in the air as woven tassels swayed in countless directions, collectively creating what looked like a rushing tide of purple waves, confidently crashing. At that moment, as we all basked in this whirlwind of a celebration, we were no longer students forced to navigate through NYU’s unpredictable waters. We were the helpless “little fish,” no longer. Together we joined, and became the “big sea.”

As the graduating class of 2016, we came together and seized our momentous accomplishment. In doing so, we shed the juvenile scales that marked our roles as the once helpless little fish, just learning how to breathe under water. Four years later, I can speak on behalf of my fellow graduates that we have swam far enough, long enough, and deep enough to not only become acquainted with the rush of the tide, but to become one with it.

As I reflect upon my time at NYU, now as an alumnus, I think about all of the remarkable experiences I have had – the celebrations, the heartbreaks, the discoveries, and the triumphs, and all of the eclectic, inspiring people I have met – from intelligent professors to intimidating bosses, and from genuine friends to eye-opening acquaintances, who all come from a variety of distinct backgrounds and beliefs. Now, I feel as though I see the world through a new lens with multiple dimensions – a point of view I was not exposed to before turning the page to this wondrous, crazy chapter. I have discovered my authentic self with confidence and pride, and as a result, I continuously strive to open my eyes to adopt a more embracing perspective on life.

As a result of all this, I have a response for those people who were afraid for me to dive into the scary deep-end that is New York City, who warned me of the potential dangers of exploring an unfamiliar realm far beyond my comfort zone:

Fear was the best emotion I experienced during my college life – because as it seems, from fear and initial hesitation arises the potential for ultimate courage and growth. But if we don’t move past that initial fear, close our eyes, and dive with faith, we’ll never know what possibilities await us in the new unknown. When becoming acquainted with frighteningly new environments, we face obstacles that make us feel like we just might drown. Yet, if we let go of what we cannot control, ride with the wave, and embrace our circumstances, allowing the wind to guide us and blow in the direction in which it’s meant to, life can unexpectedly lead us to people, places, situations, emotions, thoughts, discoveries, and truths that we never set out to find, but that we are meant to encounter.

Lastly, I’ve learned that no matter where the tide may turn, we must be grateful – grateful for our gains and for our losses, for our triumphs and for our failures, for the lessons learned along the way, and especially for our fears – because without our fears, we would have nothing to conquer.

So on that note, thank you: Thank you to all those who feared for me, who warned me, who almost made me reconsider moving to the wonderfully terrifying city of New York four years ago. Because of you, I have come out the other side stronger, more resilient, and more empowered than before. And to those who have supported me and encouraged my move to NYU all along, to vigorously chase after my dreams no matter how farfetched or unlikely they may be – thank you. I am truly humbled by your confidence and faith in me.

Because now, as I cross the threshold into the “real” world – past NYU’s once daunting, now comforting streets, I’d be lying if I said I’m not afraid. Of course I’m afraid. But as I prepare to embark on my next journey in life, I reflect upon the one most valuable lesson I learned in college: if it weren’t for my experience as a little fish, I would have never become the sea.

Every year, April 13^th is a chance for me to think back in retrospect on the goals I’ve accomplished and the dreams that I’ve realized in the previous year. Sometimes – (as I’m sure we all do) – I get so caught up in my day-to-day routines, that I forget the importance of taking a step back and looking at my life from an external point of view, to soak everything in. But I’ve found that my birthday is the perfect opportunity to do just that: to pause and acknowledge how far I’ve come, and to look ahead to the fresh possibilities that await me in the coming year.

Today, I reflected on everything that I crossed off my extensive list of goals this past year. And now, as I edge towards the threshold into true adulthood that I’ll soon cross as a college graduate, I’ve anticipated what I expect the future to behold. However, this year in particular, I found that my “birthday introspection,” if you will, has been slightly different from previous years:

When I turned 13, I became a “man” by the standards of the Torah – and the 400+ guests that attended my “intimate” Bar Mitzvah soirée. At 16, I looked forward to driving on the road on my own – even though my parents were probably petrified. At 18, I celebrated my autonomy as an adult, (A.K.A. being able to purchase a lottery ticket – and vote). At 21, well, let’s just say I fully embraced being able to drink legally. And today as I turn 22, the bubbling excitement that was 21 has now fizzled. With a few years left until I reach a quarter of a century, I wonder: so what’s the significance of this birthday, this year?

Today, at age 22 – neither a milestone nor an age of any true, classic significance – I feel refreshed and even liberated as I embrace the simple beauty and value of the present. Today more than ever, I’ve chosen to celebrate the place and time in my life I’m at in this very moment, at this random, “in-between” age.

As I turned a year older (and hopefully wiser) today, I realized that the past is now a fleeting memory that I’ll always cherish but must kiss goodbye, and that this concept called “the future” that I constantly think about is just an unknown fantasy that I must patiently wait to experience. Because today is all we have – and even more importantly, today is the most beautiful thing one can have.

And as I immersed myself in all that was “today,” I allowed the celebration to pleasantly consume me: the birthday cakes, everlasting sparkling candles (that I’m sure are some type of fire hazard), vibrant balloons, and glistening confetti, are all that exist in my memory right now and still sparkle in my sight. The Facebook posts, emails, text messages, and phone calls continue to echo in my mind – and even without any sort of grand milestone to acclaim this year, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Because even with all the gifts, beautifully wrapped with big bows and ribbons, I poignantly learned on my 22^nd birthday that the most valuable gift of all is the gift of love. As my friends and family expressed their happiness that I’m a part of their lives and embraced the person that I’ve authentically become, I have never felt more loved and treasured than I did today.

So as my 22^nd birthday comes to a close, I want to thank you all for making this year’s celebration my most memorable one yet and for sharing in the journey with me thus far. I feel truly blessed and grateful to be surrounded by so many beautiful people that have touched me so deeply on so many levels. You’ve all shown me that our pure existence in this world alone is a call to celebration, and that we must seize the occasion with pride and joy, (balloons in tow). So, my friends, simply stated – you made my day. A happy birthday it was, indeed.

All my love,

Every February 14^th, across the United States and in other places around the world, we celebrate love: Candlelit dinners and walks under dreamy starlight, overflowing bouquets of red roses, packages of lingerie and bottles of sweet perfume, sparkling rosé or bubbling champagne, romantic comedies, and kisses – both chocolate and French, have all become characteristic of Valentine’s Day.

And each year, when this day rolls around in all its romantic, heart-shaped glory, we’re encouraged to share the Hallmark holiday with another person.

Whether a fling or a flame, a sweetheart or a soul mate, Valentine’s Day presents the urge to be with a special someone to truly and fully engage in the occasion. How sweet and lovely…right?

Well…let’s think about this notion, shall we?

What if it just so happens that we don’t have a Valentine on this day – another lover to lock lips with? Perhaps some of us are single, and we choose to spend the night with buddies or girlfriends or – *gasp* – alone…? In this case, for my single guys and gals out there this year, the idea of Cupid’s arrow flying through the air might feel more like a pain in the ass than a dreamy shot at the heart.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not a pessimist, and I wouldn’t even call myself a realist. I’m an idealist – a true romantic at heart completely open to the possibility of love, on every day of the year. And I’m not denying the reality that sharing Valentine’s Day with a special someone would make the holiday feel more special and appropriate, for all of us. Yet, I don’t think enjoying the occasion is necessarily contingent upon the presence of another person.

As Nat King Cole croons over tender trumpets in “L-O-V-E,” his classic ode to affection, he sings: “love is more than just a game for two.” Not to take Mr. Cole’s line out of context from the rest of his romantic anthem, but perhaps, in this particular moment, he’s right. Maybe love isn’t solely an experience or a feeling palpable between two people. Can’t one person experience love, by him or herself, without the obligatory presence of a counterpart?

Perhaps Valentine’s Day then isn’t solely meant to celebrate the romantic presence of another in our lives. Maybe beneath the mounds of rose pedals and heart-shaped candies lies a number of alternate possibilities: why not claim the whole box of Godiva chocolates all to yourself, buy yourself the lingerie you’ve been eyeing in Agent Provocateur’s store window, or even pop open a bottle (or a few) of Veuve Clicquot with your close group of friends while watching your favorite rom-com together?

Valentine’s Day is indeed the holiday of love, but the occasion isn’t solely reserved for those in a relationship. We all hold the capacity to open our hearts to love and affection – to others, but also, to ourselves.

So – cheers to embracing the holiday as an opportunity for sweet self-indulgence, and for doing what you love for yourself. Happy Valentine’s Day to all of my romantics out there – taken and single alike.

XOXO,