Raging Girlhood

My second Valentine's Day with a boyfriend, and I spent part of it swinging at a piñata while The Notebook played in the background.

Let me back up.

Mr. International and I are long distance now, which means Valentine's Day looked like a FaceTime date, a very reluctant agreement to watch a sad movie (his words), and me counting down the hours to finally be on the phone with him.

A year ago, we were in Barcelona and just a little cooler. Him nervously buying me roses for the first time. Park Güell. Motorcycle rides, sushi, dancing, a drag show. Him telling me I was his first (American) Valentine.

This year: the moment we finally got The Notebook going, a piñata appeared on my ceiling fan. You know, the ceiling fan directly in front of the TV that I was finally watching The Notebook on. My roommate and two friends, post the dollar store, had big plans, and they did not involve Nicholas Sparks and the most tragically beautiful love story there ever was.

I was mildly annoyed. I also immediately grabbed a bat.

Later, Ladylove with my Galentines — a bar founded by women, breasts and nude art on every wall, and somehow still not the most divine femininity in the room. Friends from completely different parts of my life, all at the same table, stole their thunder. One of my dearest had just let her natural hair out for the first time in a long time. She had that glow — recently in love, fully herself, effortlessly radiant. I couldn’t dare gloss over that.

This morning a video found me. A girl on vacation with her husband texting her group chat: "I miss the bathroom filled with hair straighteners, makeup everywhere, music blasting, and giggles."

Even with my dream love, I still get the piñatas, glowing best friends/dance partners, and the raging girlhood I know I can't live without.

I don't take that lightly.