To say I have no fondness for Valentine’s Day would be a gross understatement. I loathe it. The whole thing doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s not that I have a problem with celebrating love—I only fail to see the point of singling out one day of the year for it. Why should adults focus solely on their partners for 24 hours instead of celebrating all the people they love? Shouldn’t we all abide bythe elementary school rule requiring us to bring a valentine for everyone?
I think so. And that is why in our household, Valentine’s Day is now strictly for friends. Our romantic love gets every other day of the year. Friends get this one.
Besides, the romantic version of Valentine’s Day has never worked out particularly well for me.
The pain began really began in third grade when some smart-ass classmate noticed I had given my biggest valentine to one of the boys instead of one of the girls. His public shaming was unrelenting—a special kind of torture for someone who hadn’t yet mastered the skill of keeping his “secret” out of full view. Not that I even knew what my “secret” was at the time! But that Valentine’s Day I must have realized I’d better figure it out—fast.
The day never got kinder.
In fact, the worst Valentine’s Days aren’t even when you’re single. Let us not forget those excruciatingly awkward Valentine’s Days when you’re in that not-quite-a-couple phase of dating. You and a certain someone—whom you’ve only recently started seeing—are suddenly forced to submit to the rituals of the scarlet red hot day of love, despite not being ready for prime time. You might not have even told your friends about him yet.
Going on a date on this night, a night that should, by all rights, be just a regular date, creates epic expectations. Been there. Done that. Thank U. Next.
Some of my most colorful Valentine’s evenings happened on nights that should have been one of those normal, “getting to know you” dates but instead were hijacked by “aren’t we fabulously in love? Buy me a rose!” madness.
Which brings us to the one I now call “The Valentine’s Date Massacre.”
I had been seeing Ryan for only a couple of weeks when Valentine’s Day inconveniently landed on a Saturday. If we didn’t go out that night, my libido would be forced to wait another week so naturally, I agreed to the date despite my misgivings.
He arrived on time, all smiles, carrying a bouquet of flowers. (ick!) He drove me in a fancy car to a fancy restaurant pretty close to my place. So far, so good.
Then, somewhere between the salad and the main course, Ryan casually mentioned that he had been struggling with his, uh, inability (or more accurately, unwillingness) to comply with the restraining order his ex had filed against him.
Um… pass the salt?
It was unnerving how he had delivered this information gleefully, like a normal, functioning adult might share a small work achievement. Ryan beamed with pride as he detailed the artful ways he continued to contact his ex—by calling him fifty times a day, stealing his mail, and, most impressively, taking the time to put a dozen or so nails in his ex’s car tires while he was grocery shopping.
Um… okay.
By the time dessert finally arrived (note to self: never pre-order the chocolate soufflé unless you know your date very well), he had slid into full crying with real tears mode, and I was busy making silent plans to walk home and pray he didn’t remember where I lived.
Which brings me to my actual favorite Valentine’s Day. Even though it too ended poorly.
The picture at the top of this post? That’s the guy I kept. He is the guy that somehow, miraculously, decided to keep me too.
For this particular Valentine’s Day, I had fully committed to pulling out every goopy, sappy, Hallmark-movie-level romantic, Martha Stewart Living Valentine’s Issue gone nuts stop. I spent days planning the perfect six-course meal. If it could be heart-shaped, it was.
Those appetizers in the photo? Heart-shaped crostini piped with pink salmon cream. I know. Lame.
I decorated the room with a flock of 50 red paper birds—whirling above us in tribute to an inside joke we shared. (Only a few are visible in the photo, but trust me, there were many, many more.)
Unfortunately, I was so thrilled to be cooking for someone I actually loved (and, critically, who had never keyed my car) that I lost track of how many pink, frothy cocktails I had consumed over the course of the evening.
So, naturally, I passed out minutes after serving dessert—waking only hours later to vomit before crawling my romantic in love ass back into bed.
And this, my friends, was my favorite Valentine’s Day.
Good times.
Yup—despite my ultimately humiliating display of love (mercifully, no restraining order was filed), we are still very together and now very proud daddies… of our kitty, Margarita.
I won’t tell you what we’re doing this Valentine’s Day, but suffice it to say, it will be a much lower-key affair.
No birds.
No vomit.
Just friends.
Oh my God – that “massacre” story is hilarious! And the dinner for your husband — I did something similar the first time I cooked dinner for my husband….I guess that’s how you know it’s real love – they kept us anyhow!
And as you said in the haiku – who needs to be told to have ONE day to show our loved ones how we feel? It’s every day!
I adore you even more Kate for admiting you read my Haiku!
This is very sweet, but it does tell me you put a lot of pressure on V-Day. Low key or not. GREG
Yes, that is just my agenda. 😉
Fabulous stories! The romance must be gone at our house–we’re down to practicality. Sophie and I were in the mountains on VDay, so we left a nice bottle of single-malt scotch with a pink bow on it in a cupboard where Stefan would never look (the gift wrapping closet) and called him on VDay to tell him where it was. It came in very handy for his mother’s six-car crash-up a few days later.