Somebody that I used to know once said, “Valentine’s Day is a waste of time and money and I don’t believe in it.” He’s married now, and I’m willing to bet that he spent his weekend running around trying to find some trinket for his wife to commemorate their love. Because that’s exactly what a Whitman’s Sampler does, as suggested by the ads in this weekend’s paper.
This is the part of the post where I will likely sound bitter and lonely and just down-right depressed. Think what you will. I can’t stop you.
Like most single folk, I just don’t see the point in Valentine’s Day. I didn’t buy candy hearts, no one will send me flowers, and I’m not expecting a fancy dinner in a swanky restaurant. And if I was in a relationship, I would rather get “just because” flowers on some random weekday than have my man feel obligated to buy me something for a Hallmark holiday.
And that’s exactly what it’s become. Does anyone really even remember where it all started? I could sit here and tell you about the origins of Valentine’s Day (which, if you’ve known me for a few years, I’ve done in the past). I could complain about the fact that a feast day for a Catholic saint has become commercialized and turned into an excuse to buy lingerie. I’m not going to do that this year. I’m tired of fighting it.
The rest of the country has embraced the spirit of the day. My neighborhood is decked out in cardboard hearts and plastic Cupids. Red and white lights glow at night, replacing the Christmas lights that hung there a little over a month ago. Major television networks are advertising Love Week, and the radio stations are playing non-stop blocks of “your favorite love songs” all weekend long. It’s time I just shut up and kept my opinions to myself.
So this year I’m going to let the day pass quietly. There’ll be no bitching from me. No complaining, no snide remarks, no eye-rolling.
Happy Valentine’s Day, to those who choose to celebrate. And Happy Monday to everyone else.