Valentine's Day

(written February 14th, 2007)

Fucking Valentine’s Day is here again. Every year I kind of dread it, and every year I’m acutely aware of its arrival beginning in mid-January. That’s when the stores, stores ranging from E.E Robins to Safeway, remind us not to forget that “someone special” in our lives. Come February, all the radio stations are playing into the holiday, counting down the top love songs of all time--- never before has Sarah McLaughlin been so off-putting. But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is, and has always been, hearing other people make plans for “the big day.” Sure, there are plenty of folks like me who choose to ignore this facsimile of a holiday; but just as many concern themselves with the perfect plan for a perfect date. They ask me too, “what should I do with [insert name of significant other here] on Wednesday?” I cannot, and do not, solicit advice. I refuse to indulge in the saccharine cards and candies, the date nights, or the love ballads. Instead, I don myself in black clothing and listen to G. Giel’s “Love Stinks.” Not exactly a Hallmark moment.
I’m not sure when the animosity I have for Valentine’s Day was born. I remember liking the “holiday” as kid. It was one of a few days a year when third grader was granted a break from the monotony of multiplication tables and cursive penmanship. We elementary students instead spent the day decorating shoeboxes with red and pink sheets of construction paper, doilies, and crude drawings of hearts. This was all in an effort to get the best Valentines from our classmates. The teachers, perhaps wisely so, made it a rule that “if we made Valentines, we had to make them for EVERYONE!” The competition then became how sugary-sweet the messages were. Usually the ones I got were the terse: “To Mike, happy valentines, from Sarah.” Or the occasional: “Ur Sweet!” “2 Kool” I never got the really mushy ones ---the cards that spawned weeks of juvenile playground rumors because somebody signed their card “love.” Then there was my mother. She always made a big deal about holidays, and Valentine’s Day was never an exception. Every year my sister Stef and I would get special Valentine ’s Day gifts from mom, usually books, and there was always chocolate. Each year I looked forward to mom’s themed desserts: a large heart-shaped chocolate moose cake, chocolate-raspberry cupcakes, and sugar cookies with candy-heart messages inscribed on each one.
But we all have to grow up. Schools stop formally acknowledging Valentine’s day. As some of my peers started to actually date, they celebrated in style leaving the rest of us in the dust. And my mom eventually decided that her kids were too old for chocolate cakes and cards (this took until my freshman year in college, and I think it may have been my mom’s not so-subtle way to compensate for Stef’s and my perpetually single status). It became just another day. And I think I would have been fine if I could let it go at that.
I’m at a crossroads of sorts now. I went through a long and bitter period when I “had to hate Valentine’s day.” I ascertained that it “tackified love” and branded it “a consumerist holiday.” The problem was I hadn’t even experienced “love.” Perhaps I was bitter that I wasn’t in love. And while 364 days a year I could usually walk around, confident in my singledom and independence, every February 14th was a reminder of ‘hey, there is something more.’ That, of course, is completely irrational and clichéd. I’ve gained a little perspective now that I’m truly on my own, now that I’ve pursued people I thought I loved, and been perused by those I didn’t. Maybe I really want to like Valentine’s Day (and my supposed loathing would be what Freudians call ‘a reaction formation’ response). Despite being cheesy, and commercialized, Valentine’s Day celebrates love. And I have learned to love being in love.