Time for candy hearts and daggers
Most people heave a great sigh of relief when the holidays are over. For me, the month of January leads to the very day that I dread -- Feb. 14.
When you’re single, Valentine’s Day is a miserable, torturous day. You listen to your friends making their elaborate plans; you watch as they labor over their wardrobe choices, asking your opinion. “Should I wear this dress? What do you think of these heels?” Meanwhile, you’re sitting on their bed, legs crossed with your chin on your hands, envisioning the ratty bathrobe you’re going to be wearing that night, trying to decide if Chunky Monkey will win out over Cherry Garcia.
If that weren’t enough, every storefront in sight is exploding in pink and red decorations, and wherever you look there are bouquets of flowers.
Don’t get me wrong: I do have some hopeless romantic in me -- I just don’t think there should be a holiday marketed to the coupled. In the many legends of how Valentine’s Day came to be, the most common one is that St. Valentine fell in love with a young girl while he was in prison and wrote her a love letter before his death, signing it “from your Valentine.” If that’s the case, how in the heck did we go from one simple, sweet letter to a multibillion-dollar industry of overpriced flowers, jam-packed restaurants, uncomfortable lingerie and the bizarre overabundance of teddy bears?
I distinctly remember the time when I actually liked Valentine’s Day. I was in the third grade. Remember those cardboard boxes full of little cutout heart-shaped cards? There was no disappointment involved; you had a list of your classmates’ names and everyone got one, keeping 7-year-old feelings intact. By fifth grade it was all over -- 10-year-olds now played favorites, and utter devastation set in upon the realization you got three fewer valentines than the girl next to you, who had satin ribbons in her pigtails instead of frayed yarn.
There has been one constant, however: Thirty-six years later, I still get a box of those stale, powdery conversation hearts from my mother.
On the off chance that a new relationship has blossomed when the dreaded day rolls around, an inordinate amount of pressure is placed on both you and the poor Romeo who thinks he has to actually spend his life savings on roses that will wilt in 48 hours. But now that you have this new beau, you can’t help but get sucked into the Valentine vortex. And those same friends who last year offered their half-eaten chocolates and flashed their sparkly stake? They take an acrobatic leap on the bandwagon: “I’m sooo excited that you finally have a date this year! Where is he taking you? You definitely should buy a new outfit!”
Just yesterday it happened. The question came innocently enough: “So, what do you want to do for Valentine’s Day?” Here we go. Do I tell this wonderful person that I despise everything Cupid, from his little bow and arrow to his saggy diaper? Do I dare risk this brand-new, seemingly perfect relationship with an actual future by admitting my repugnance for that particular ritual of romance?
I looked into his adorably hopeful green eyes, took a gulp and said, “Nothing. I want to do nothing.” Before risking total dating destruction, however, I quickly added, “Well, not nothing, per se. How about I cook dinner, we watch a movie and go out on the 15th instead?” His face looked blank for a moment, and then slowly broke into a smile.
Whew! That was a close one.
--
