Table For One? Yes Please and Thank You!
Over the past few years, I’ve found myself surrounded by more marketing lingo, sales slogans, and cute, commercial quips than 20-year-old Emily studying Musical Theater in New York could have ever imagined. And inevitably, each year as January comes to a close, one familiar term starts to creep into every marketing calendar known to man, as the middle of February draws near.
Self Love.
And every. single. year. I cringe.
For some reason, something about this phrase has always rubbed me the wrong way. And maybe that’s a bit messed up. But 9 times out of 10, I see “Self Love” as a slogan for pressuring women to add yet another product to their “Self Care” routine. Maybe it bothers me because I’m a decently confident person and if I loved myself anymore, it’d be borderline offensive, and literally nobody would want to hang out with me.
But in a crazy turn of events, I’ve found myself staring straight into the eyes of “Self Love” this Valentine’s Day and I’ve decided to take on this obnoxious mothereffer by the horns. For the past (almost) decade of my life (WOW I feel old), I now realize that I had the company of some sort of date or boyfriend every single Valentine’s Day. So I fell into the category of those being targeted for special “dinner for twos” or heart-shaped products personalized with everything from names to longitude and latitude lines (this trend I really don’t understand). With the exception of one particular year, I was never being targeted by creepily accurate Instagram ads in February to “treat myself” to jewelry or bake myself a heart-shaped cake because #selflove.
But wouldn’t you know, just after New Year’s I found myself sipping a nice red wine in post-travel quarantine, having a positively kind and productive conversation with my would-be Valentine. And in that conversation, loaded with deep thoughts and years of questions, we decided to part ways. For good.
(More on that later. Or honestly maybe not, because we all have better things to do than listen to my 1425th breakup tale.)
Cue healing long walks along Hamburg’s extensive waterways taking stock of my emotions? Ha! KIDDING. Cue getting Coronavirus and being confined to quarantine with the human you really need to start distancing yourself from. (Literally.) Despite having the utmost respect for each other, it’s safe to say Kris and I were counting down the tests, doctors visits, and quarantine calls until we were released from each other and allowed to go about our own journeys.
So for the better half of January, I spent a lot of my nights lying in bed thinking about what led me to exactly where, and who, I am now. And as I thought about the different phases of my 20s, the career changes, travels, trips, and the cross-continent moves, I realized every phase directly coincided with a boyfriend or partner. My first boyfriend in New York encouraged and witnessed my blossoming confidence I’d never quite found in my childhood. A few years later, my first big love inspired me to become a better actor and served as a support system as I navigated scary post-college uncertainty (and expenses) in New York City. And a few years after that, I landed a stellar travel buddy and cheerleader, who showed me places and people I hadn’t worked up the courage to meet on my own.
And as I lay in my bed, overanalyzing everything I’ve learned from these phases and relationships, I realized that, yes, I’ve been very lucky to learn from the catalogue of boyfriends I paraded in front of my family at Christmas. They were all great guys. But all of the growth, change, and accomplishment I felt I gained when we were together had little to do with the makeup of the man holding my hand, and everything to do with the evolving heart and mind of me. And exactly in this moment, as I lay snuggled in my cozy bed all alone, resting my head on my Frida Kahlo pillow, it clicked.
Self Love.
The energy, forward momentum, and drive I’d felt coming from these relationships was not a gift from the person on the other side, but instead a mirror of exactly what I knew I was capable of all along. Of course, being one half of a whole makes certain decisions seem less risky, fastracks occasional travel plans, and gives you a built-in sounding board for whimsical ideas. So I don’t mean to knock the perks of being in a relationship. (There are definitely many.) But every single thing I set out to accomplish over the past decade was initiated and completed by one person, while a rotating cast of characters came along to add color and depth to the story. That person was, and is, me.
I won’t lie, I get a weird sense of pride whenever people ask, “So why did you move to Hamburg?” and I enthusiastically reply, “I did it for me. This is where I’m happy.”
And if that’s “Self Love”, then tie me up with a ribbon, count me in for overpriced spa products, and reserve me your best table for one.