Two weeks ago, I got dumped.

Lovingly, apologetically dumped, with no warning or build-up. Not because of fights or any real long-standing “problems,” just different life goals and only one of us willing to admit it was an issue. If it sounds pleasant and amicable, it wasn’t. I questioned, I cried, I tried to talk my way out of it, pointed out pros and cons — all of which was, of course, completely unsuccessful.

It’s over, kaput, finished — and it’s not coming back.

Now, I have a condition I’ve battled pretty much since puberty: serial monogamy. For those not in the know, that’s a series of “committed, serious relationships” back to back, each lasting about one to two years, with as little time as possible spent single in between.

It’s not something I’ve consciously tried to do, but it just so happens that I’ve been “taken” for the majority of my late teens and early adulthood. I guess that when faced with the choice between wallowing in pain, rejection, denial, or basking in the attentions of another dapper chap who thinks I’m swell, I simply gravitate to the latter and get on with it. I’m not proud, just honest. That’s my history.

The thing is, what with being dumped and all, I’m currently somewhere in between the wailing-into-my-pillow-to-the-lilt-of-Ben-Gibbard stage (it’s only been two weeks, folks) and glorious, elusive emotional recovery. Yet Valentine’s Day has the nerve to not be called off, and everywhere the message seems to swing one of two ways: all you need is love, how to find a date this Valentine’s Day, top 10 ways to seduce your sweetie, or down with VD, love is a marketing tool, how to survive Valentine’s alone, blah blah blah.

So what’s a freshly-minted single to do? As I’ve already explained, I’m really not good at this. I’m used to having the best friend/lover/back scratcher/second opinion combo that is the “significant other.” That’s why they’re so significant. I’m used to believing in love and romance and relationships, in trust and communication, good times and bad times — but mostly the good times.

I think I’ve been alone a combined 12 months since high school. Well, 12 months and two weeks now. And now the world is telling me that, unattached, my choices are either to snag a mate pronto or pick up a guide on how to live through 24 hours of Hallmarketing.

Forget it, I call bullshit. I can’t do it. I won’t. I’m a hopeless romantic, an idealist with a yen for happy endings. Slumdog Millionaire is quite possibly my favourite movie of all time. I cheered.

I love being in love, and I love that sparkly feeling of anything’s possible. But I think I’ve had enough of saying “This is it! No, wait, this is it. I mean, shit, THIS is it!” Instead, for the first time (ever really) I’m flooring the clutch and disengaging from the game itself. After years of relationships taking their natural (doomed) trajectories, I feel like finally I’m grown up enough to heal my own wounds.

Love has passed me by again, but this time there’s a glimmer in the mud. Amidst the suckiness, I think, there’s opportunity. I have no babies, no hubby, no mortgage, no nothing but freedom, and me. All these years I’ve been half an item. And as rich and nuanced as true love must be, something in my gut says that by sticking it out, alone but not lonely, I am sitting on a diamond mine. There is something real and a meaningful value to gain, and I for one, am going digging.

So to hell with loving or hating Valentine’s Day. It isn’t worth it. In the end it makes sense that the most important love affair you’ll ever have in life, with anyone, is the one you manage to cultivate with yourself.