The Quintessential Harvard Valentine's Day

8:30 a.m. – I wake up decidedly single. Blinking sleep from my bleary eyes, I realize that I am also completely bereft of plans for the day. And more shockingly: bereft of chocolate. One of these things is an immediate must-fix (it's the chocolate).

8:35 a.m. – The snooze blares its judgmental alarm at me and I roll out of bed. I'm a day by day kind of planner. Scratch that. Minute by minute. Scratch that too, my mom reads these. I plan things weeks in advance, don't worry mom. But my hypothetical lethargic alter-ego isn't really the type to calendar out meals in advance. Or anything to do with an afternoon. Or life. I figure I should at least spend some time with humans today, but who? And how to broach the subject without sounding needy? A few drafts of texts run through my head. “Hey (platonic) baby, wanna double date? Me and my 300 pages of reading due Tuesday, you and your Pset...?” Maybe not.

11:30 a.m. – I decide to brave brunch solo. Strapping on my heavy boots and my heavier book, I stride into the D-Hall, a manic I'll-sit-and-read-alone-if-I-have-to-holiday-be-damned look flitting across my eyes. I manage to form a squad with a few block-mates and conversation quickly turns to the day's hottest topic: Datamatch. Datamatch delightfully divides us between those who did and those who didn't. Aha, you have a loving relationship? What a shame, I get free waffles. We bask in our superiority.

12:30 p.m. – I learn that my roommate in a loving relationship actually did try his hand at Datamatch. I think his girlfriend jokingly suggested it, and unsure of whether or not that comment was serious he decided to hedge his bets and fill out the form. It backfired when he accidentally hit the waffles button as he was viewing the matches on his phone. I recommended he go. I'm fairly sure most of the dates are gonna be in it for that W anyways.

3:30 p.m. – With that girlfriend visiting for the weekend, another down from Canada (though she says she's “staying with another friend,” so fret not mom, we're quite responsible here), and a third having all but moved in for the semester, I've been upgrading from a tricycle to a pentacycle to a septacycle. I love them all dearly but at some point make the strategic decision to retreat into my room with my book-date in hand.

3:31 p.m. – As part of a not very well thought out prank, our floor has become littered with large balloons. They're like roommates: I have to be very careful not to step on them or they'll make a horrifically loud noise and annoy the whole floor. I've become quite close with the one who has a bearded lady sharpied on it. Don't tell the others though. They'll just get jealous.

3:32 p.m. – I'm curled up in bed reading but my heart isn't in it. Where is my heart? Who knows. If I was an autonomous blood pumping organ I'd be someplace a little warmer. Hawaii is where the heart is, I believe the old saying goes. I feel my eyelids droop. No stop, you nitwit! There's so much left to do today! I grumble and start to get up, but something makes me stop mid-cover-throw. A revelation.

It's so simple it's perfect. It's so insane I'm afraid to even try. It's so game changing, I don't even know if I should be letting it out. Somehow, I've stumbled blindly upon the secret to Valentine's Day.

I look to my roommates and they nod back in reassuring silence.

I'm dead asleep not two minutes later. Valentine's Day? Think I nailed it.