This isn’t an easy mindset to adopt — I’ll be the first to tell you that. If you aren’t in a relationship, it seems like everything in the world is designed to remind you that you’re single on February 14th. (Case in point: My email inbox is currently flooded with blood-boiling press pitches cooing over hearts and flowers.) If Valentine’s Day happens to fall on a weekend, it sucks doubly, because all of your coupled-up friends have plans and you’re decidedly not invited. No, Maria. We don’t want you to play third wheel to our romantic evening at The Ludlow Hotel. We don’t give a shit how much you love their bathtubs. But here’s how I flip the script: Valentine’s Day is about love, right? So why can’t I just show that love to myself? Why can’t I take a day that seems to make me want to feel shitty about my current relationship status and turn it into something else? I mean, if Beyoncé can make lemons into Lemonade, I can certainly turn “hey-remember-you’re-single” day into “I-love-myself-yas-queen” day. The only thing that had been stopping me before was, of course, myself. After that initial V-Day (which I now consider “vibrator day” instead of “Valentine’s Day”), I started planning little things to do to show myself the love I deserve. One year, I planned a small dinner with a few of my other single friends . Another year, I cashed in a gift card and got an incredible massage at the The Ritz-Carlton Hotel. I started ordering myself flowers last year — this year, I spent $50 on a bouquet of my favourite blooms. Ridiculous? Probably. But damn, ranunculus make me happy as hell, and can you really put a price tag on that? The past couple of years, instead of venturing out into the world, I’ve been enjoying spending Valentine’s night at home by myself. Not because the idea of seeing other couples makes me sad, but because I’m most comfortable at home. I don’t have to dress up — in fact, I’ll probably spend Valentine’s evening in leggings, a nubby sweater, and thick wool socks, instead of the lacy lingerie I’ve sported in years past. And there’s something remarkably freeing about that, since it’s the exact scenario I used to dread: sitting home alone on Valentine’s Day. Instead of filling me with anxiety, now I look forward to these nights alone all year. Being able to sit comfortably on the other side of that fear is one of the most loving gifts I can give myself. So Tuesday night, I’ll leave work and pick up a big, hideous, heart-shaped box of chocolates from the Duane Reade near my apartment. I’ll slip into my comfy clothes, pull my cheese plate out of the fridge, and nibble at it while I cook my gnocchi with pesto. Then, I’ll sit in front of the television with my meal, my wine, and my chocolates and watch The Golden Girls until I’m fully satiated. And when the food and wine is gone and I can’t listen to Blanche anymore, I’ll sprawl across my bed alone, turn on my humidifier, and (after some vibe time) fall asleep. Do I hope that, one day, I’ll have someone to sip wine on the couch with on February 14th? Of course I do. But in the meantime, this day is for me. And something tells me that, when I do find myself in a happy relationship, there will be a small part of me that will miss the Valentine’s Days I spent in love with just myself.