be mine

So here we are.

Today is the day after Valentine’s Day. The day of reckoning. 

Just yesterday millions of people asked the question: will you be mine? They asked it via greeting cards and engraved chalky candy hearts and rose petals and all sorts of red and pink crap that’s half-price now. Some didn’t even ask. They just stated it bluntly: Be Mine.

And today, those who answered yes are living with that reply. Your Valentine owns you now. You have been bought with a Russell Stover heart and/or dinner. Now what?

Here are some possible answers to that:

You are now an unpaid intern.

You are now a ringtone.

You are now the 4 AM meteorologist at Channel 12.

You are now a co-signer on a loan application.

You are now known as sugar boots, tugboat, or my little junk drawer. 

You are now a plus-one for every event except the good ones.

You are now to be put in a large cage (the kind reserved for go-go dancers) and displayed prominently at a local mall.

You are now fetching beverages on demand.

You are now getting that tattoo you never wanted.

You are now handing out samples of things you are allergic to.

You are now the person inside the Philly Phanatic. Not the main one, the third one that goes to grocery store openings.

You are now driving the getaway car.

You are now the face of a new brand of waffles.

You are now copyediting Facebook.

You are now a drug mule.

You are now the unwitting star of an hidden camera web series.

You are now an alibi in all past, current and future investigations.

You are now a human shield and/or footstool. 

You are now the person who always has to go first when entering a dark room or scary-looking house.

Or, possibly, you might now be in charge of chopping all the onions for everyone ever.

So next Valentine’s Day, if you hear or read the words Be Mine, think before you answer, and be sure to ask: Be your what, exactly? (After you take the candy, of course.)

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.