After conducting some research, I’ve reached one conclusion: I’ve successfully avoided writing specifically about Valentine’s Day on this blog for nearly six years. I wrote this post, but it doesn’t count; it’s just a 14-year-old Emily gushing over celebrities that she just so happened to publish on Valentine’s Day in 2009. Definitely doesn’t count.
Thus, the world has no idea how I feel about said “holiday.” (Why does it care? You’re probably thinking. I know.)
Uh, Valentine’s Day sucks.
Ever heard of Sweetest Day? Rolls around every year on the third Saturday in October. I’d rather partake in that than VD (haha, venereal disease, geddit? If you do, you probably only began reading this because of my super enticing and witty title. I flatter myself. I know.).
I’m making a pretty sweeping generalization here, but I’m assuming most girls want to be pampered and treated like princesses come February 14. From the perspective of a girl who has been mercilessly pampered and treated like a princess on VD, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Flowers die; chocolates get eaten; I have to sift through the damn mystery box to avoid the nut-filled and cherry-filled ones. Yuck. I’ve even received one of those gaudy, 2-foot by 3-foot cards. It seemed sweet at the time, now I look back and roll my eyes just a tad.
Maybe I’m desensitized because my first-ever boyfriend dumped me two days before VD during my freshman year of high school. I’ve learned to expect less, even when Mr. Wonderful showered me with so many nice gifts for several years.*
You can hate me for dissing VD, but just know that, like I said in my last post, I can be rather flaky. I’ll probably be crying into a gallon of chocolate ice cream at this time next year. Still.
I don’t need February 14 for a man to tell me he loves me or to confess his true feelings.
I don’t need the giant VD card, the boxes of terrible chocolates, a teddy bear holding a heart or a bouquet of flowers I’ll definitely hang upside-down to dry, only for the dried leaves and petals to fall to the floor, making a mess.
And don’t even get me started on the cheesy, gag-me-please diamond jewelry commercials. A $1500 rock doesn’t tell me you love me; it makes me mad that you didn’t spend it on groceries, the rent or plane tickets to go somewhere warm. I totally just jumped ahead of myself by 10 years, but I think you get my point.
You love me? Show me every day. Don’t buy me a $5 Hallmark card once a year, scrawling your name into it each time without even reading it first.
At least VD-themed Hershey Kisses will be half price at Walmart the day after. I’ll see if I can sucker my guy into stocking up for me. That’s enough to make this Blackbyrd happy.
Stay tuned: in next year’s post I’ll be mourning the loss of my college career and surely the plenitude of relationships with men that just didn’t work out.
*Though Mr. Wonderful did once tell me something that made me laugh. He sold more condoms on and around Valentine’s Day than any other time during his, uh, tenure at a local Rite Aid. Haha figures.