I think I’d like to join the circus.

Oh wait. I’ve already done that by creating a circus out of my life. Maybe I just want to hook up with a lion tamer or a tight-rope walker. Oh wait. I’ve done that, too.

You see, I’m drawn to risk takers, to chaos managers. I happen to fall into both categories. But the problem for me is I choose these weirdos and entrust them with my emotional vulnerability. This is a gift I give very few. But why do I choose to give this gift to people who don’t return the favor? This is the question.

And I am pondering this question—by no accident—shortly before Valentine’s Day. Because, you see, I have come to the conclusion—with a little help from my friends, and especially my therapist—that my true heart’s desire is reciprocity, something I’ve never received (or perhaps demanded) from a beloved.

I’ma change this tout suite. In the interest of “write it down, make it happen,” I’ll essay (yes, I’m making this a verb) here past and future Valentine’s Days of mine.

As a child, Valentine’s Days were filled with fear and delight. I remember special sweet breakfasts (a rarity in my childhood) with surprise packages wrapped lovingly in pink and red paper and ribbon. Inside I’d find jewelry, clothing, little tokens and reminders of my parents’ love and affection—often everlasting things: rings, bracelets, coin purses, things I have managed to keep with me as I’ve moved time and time again.

But the fear came as I meandered off to school, nervously expecting the popularity contest come to life with the exchange of paper valentines and candy to come. Weeks ahead of time we would begin creating our personal “mailboxes” in art class. Mine would always stand out among the generic shoeboxes covered in red construction paper, mottled with crayon hearts. One year I created a giant, rainbow fish out of posterboard, stapled at the seams. Its open mouth patiently awaited the valentines from my secret admirers. But what if no one remembered me, or liked me enough to sign their name to a store-bought Snoopy, Garfield or Strawberry Shortcake valentine? Everyone knew by the end of the day who the most popular kid in school was, and that kid was never me, no matter how many valentines and sweet tarts I stuffed into everybody else’s valentine boxes.

Fast forward to Valentine’s Day with my most recent beloved, heretoforth referred to as Hairless Beast, HB for short. We considered ourselves a couple across five February 14ths, but only the first and last really stand out in my memory.

On our first Valentine’s Day together, he forgot what day it was. I reminded him at 4 p.m. and he managed to make a 10 p.m. reservation at one of the finer dining establishments in town. I spent hours gussying myself up, donning my most sensual fragrance, a black, silk, cut-on-the bias dress and a red silk Chinese jacket. I looked fine, and I knew it. As we entered the restaurant, we passed a party of 8 who shyly acknowledged HB by name as they exited the building. The maitre d’ seated HB and me, but HB was distracted. Those 8 were members of his department at work; they’d intentionally excluded him from a dinner meeting. He knew he was on his way out of the job that had brought him to a new country.

Goodbye romance.

We ate whatever we ate without much conversation, him scowling, me feeling flushed with embarrassment for him, my shoulders hunched up around my ears. We stopped at a dive bar on the way home, drank a few beers, and HB shot pool with a couple of laborers from the neighborhood. As he stepped up to take a critical shot, he gently pushed me out of his way. But at the end of a bad night of too much drink and not enough laughter, I practically slipped off my suede high-heeled shoes as my dearest dress caught the ragged edge of the table and snagged.

I cried.

This Valentine’s Day set the tone for my years of “romance” with HB.

For the next two Februaries, he and I lived in different places. He sent cards; I sent chocolate and pieces of art I had made for him to remember me by.

Valentine’s number four, we lived together again. He left work later than planned, we got stuck in a terrible maze of Boston’s downtown traffic (it was during the thick of the Big Dig), missed our dinner reservation in the North End, and ended up eating pizza around the corner from our apartment.

V number five, I made the reservation, got us there in time, the food and wine were lovely. But my inability to avoid the truth coupled with my lousy timing inspired me to bring up the question, “Why is it that this is our fifth Valentine’s Day together and we live in separate places with no real plans to live in the same place again anytime soon?”

He had neither an answer nor an apology to satisfy me or give me hope. I cried all over my Cornish game hen and continued through to dessert.

Last year, I spent Valentine’s Day alone. Darling Sid sent me the care package to end all care packages. Inside the giant box from NYC I tore open two packages wrapped in heart-covered paper and red, fabric ribbon with little heart shapes cut out of it. The woman sent me shoes. Two pairs of stilettos: one strappy, black patent leather pair, and one round toed number in red satin with rhinestone buckles. I spent the evening drinking wine, talking to Sid on the phone and dancing around on my hard wood floors in my new, sexy shoes.

If there is a better way to signify a new life of independence, I don’t even need to know about it.

This Valentine’s Day I don’t know what I’ll get up to. KiKi and I might go for wine and dessert after we get out of class if his boyfriend has to work. Maybe I’ll take myself dancing. Perhaps I’ll go to bed early. It really doesn’t matter, because I’m just fine. I’m glad I’m not the most popular girl in school, and I’m happy that I’m taking care of me, not the lion tamer or the tight-rope walker or the fat lady.

This year, I don’t want to join the circus; hell, I don’t even want to sit in the audience.