Our friends at TheGloss are celebrating Valentine’s Day appropriately with Love/Hate Week, which documents ambivalent feelings on the holiday and lots of other stuff, too. And I’d thought I’d join in since I have a similar relationship with the made-up holiday. See, I love Valentine’s Day, but it hates me. I’m hell-bent on enjoying it whether single or attached. I even take regular trips to the card aisle in drug stores just to browse the commercialized displays others seem to (justly) resent. I’m devoted to the holiday. It, however, feels differently.
My life turns into Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events almost every February 14. (Okay, my parents aren’t killed in a fire and I’m not adopted by an eccentric actor, but if we’re talking titles here, it adequately describes most of my Valentine’s Days.) Even as a kid, when the holiday wasn’t the loaded territory it becomes once your hormones kick in, Valentine’s Day would be the day when I’d lose my homework or leave my lunch at home, or fall victim to some other minor childhood tragedy.
Later in high school, I had my first real Valentine’s Day date with my unappreciative wrestler boyfriend. Surely, that would be my year! He was training for a fight and cutting weight, which made him extra cranky. In what I thought was a touching gesture of solidarity, I ate no candy hearts or chocolates that day. Instead, I surprised him with a diet-friendly dinner of boneless, skinless, saltless chicken breasts cut into hearts. Boiled beets offered a festive hue to the dinner and I placed a bouquet of raw broccoli on the table. To top it off, I brought a kung-fu movie to watch after dinner, even though I hate the genre. He showed his gratitude by starting an argument and falling asleep twenty minutes into the movie.
One Valentine’s Day in college, decked out in heart-shaped earrings and an adorably festive outfit, I got caught in a flash blizzard on my way to class. High winds literally threw me into a snow bank, where I lost one of the earrings and my dignity. But I wasn’t going to let the frost bite spread to my hopeful heart. I arrived to class sopping wet, mascara and red lipstick dripping down my face, icicles hanging from my hair. The guy whom I semi-dated (I had very little expectations of him in terms of Valentine’s Day celebrations) wouldn’t even make eye contact with me, as if he feared looking at me on February 14 would translate to some admission of everlasting love and commitment. Still, I wouldn’t let the slight break my resolve. Even Boston’s harshest winter in fifty years wouldn't ice-over my heart. After class, I tried to buy pink champagne for my friends only to discover that I’d lost my wallet somewhere, probably in that damn snow bank.
Clearly my own personal history has taught me nothing, because instead of shunning the day this year, I find myself browsing valentines for no one in particular and recruiting single friends for dinner, even though many have responded that they have no intention of paying inflated prices. (Again, totally fair.) If this year is anything like many years past, my bus will break down, my computer’s memory will be wiped out, I’ll lose my keys, and inconveniences big and small will challenge my perky resolve. Any other day, I’d moan, complain, pull the covers over my head and wait for my luck to turn around. But on Valentine’s Day, I’m more stubborn. I will have a good day.
What is it about this holiday that prevents me from admitting defeat? It might be my eternal optimism and my general love for heart-shaped trinkets. If I indulge more introspection, though, I’d wonder why I feel it necessary to put a pink, sparkly bow on top of an otherwise crappy day just because it’s February 14. Am I really so scared to let realism beget bitterness?
But these are thoughts better left to February 15. I have candy hearts, doilies, and red construction paper to buy.
Photo source: Sister72 (cc)
