Valentine's Day? Meh.

I may be an incurable romantic, but I have been cured of my affection for Valentine’s Day

I’m not all that enamored with Valentine’s Day. It’s not that I have anything against love—I love love. I’m kind of a romantic guy, as guys go. But the idea of setting aside only one day in the year devoted to it just seems wrong.

That, plus Valentine’s Day and I have a history. 

Some of my enmity for the holiday goes back to my elementary school days when we were all expected to trade valentine cards with our classmates. I remember that day in fourth grade, exchanging paper hearts with my friends and recognizing for the first time that the little greetings could be used as passive-aggressive status symbols. Those with more affluent parents gave the most lavish cards, usually with licensed characters on them (because nothing says love better than Minnie Mouse). The valentines my parents could afford were more generic but certainly adequate for the job, and I willingly participated. 

There was a boy in our class named Ronnie. He was the only child I knew at the time whose father didn’t live with him. Ronnie often wore the same clothes to school several days in a row, and now and then he smelled from not having bathed. As a result, he had few friends and often played alone during recess. Valentine’s Day was not kind to him.

When February 14 arrived, our classroom came alive. Delivering our Valentine cards, we heard squeals of delight from various corners of the room as some of the girls read the pre-printed inscriptions from the boys in the class, taking the universal and vapid verses as meant only for them: “I think you’re cute, I think you’re fine, would you be my Valentine?” Some of the kids who could afford them also gave out tiny “conversation hearts”— candies with specially chosen messages for certain students they liked. If you received a heart bearing one of the safe inscriptions such as “Smile” or “Great Pal,“ you knew there was no romance intended. But if you got a “My Baby” or (gasp!) “Kiss Me,” well, the invitation was clear. As for me, I bit down on a lot of “Great Pal” messages throughout my elementary school experience—lots of friends, but no kisses.

Just the same, I always made sure that I had a valentine for everyone; there were 26 kids in my fourth-grade class. As I passed them out and the stacks of paper started to grow on my classmates’ desks, I began to notice in everyone’s pile a crudely constructed homemade card, a misshapen heart cut out of white paper and colored red with a crayon. Focusing on it, I saw the words “Love, Ronnie” scribbled on each one. As I finished passing out my little store-bought cards, I finally came to Ronnie’s desk. He was sitting with his head down. As I placed my card in front of him, I saw that mine was one of only three valentines there, whereas everyone else had a stack of cards and/or candies piled high on their desks. He looked up at me and I saw the tears on his cheeks before he quickly bowed his head again. 

That was the beginning of my sour feelings about Valentine’s Day traditions. 

Those feelings intensified the following year, but for a different reason. Throughout fifth grade I had a crush on a little dark-headed girl named Suzanne. I was too embarrassed to tell her my feelings of course, so when Valentine’s Day came around, I saw it as my chance to express my devotion. On the evening of February 13 as I sorted through the box of cards my parents had bought me, I searched for one with just the right words. I was torn. Was “Be Mine” too forward? I didn’t want to scare her away. But somehow “I think you’re swell” didn’t have enough passion. I finally decided on two that were just right: “For a very special someone” and “You’re the best.” I thought, what the heck, I’ll give her both.

I was sure she would get the message. 

The next day as I handed out my valentines, I saved Suzanne’s for last. (I wanted to make sure she was sitting down.) Shyly walking up to her desk, I tried to put on my best interpretation of a casual smile, then boldly laid my cards on the table. As I did, I paused. She wasn’t looking at me, but instead was staring in joyous wonder at what else had been set before her. My jaw dropped as I saw the four heart-shaped boxes of chocolates on her desk. “To Suzanne, Love David” was the note on one. “All my love, from Paul” read another. “To the prettiest girl in the whole school” was the inscription on the biggest box. I stood there in shock and awe, stupefied at having been so devastatingly outgunned. I doubt if she ever read my heartfelt declarations. 

For the next several years Valentine’s Day held no special significance for me, not until high school when I had a steady girlfriend with whom to share the sentiment. Even then my celebration was marred by my inability to give appropriate gifts. “I don’t really like chocolate that much,” she said, reluctantly taking the box from my hands while I considered how little I really knew about the woman. 

As an adult, the timing of my relationships didn’t always coincide with February, but one year it did, and I wanted to make an impression. My companion and I had been dating for about two months, and I figured that was long enough to pull out all the stops.  Because I had to be out of town for a few days just before Valentine’s Day, I put myself to the task early on. I made reservations to ensure a table at the best restaurant in town. I ordered flowers. I bought candy (having done some research this time). I made certain I’d have everything ready for the big date when I returned.  

When the evening came, I showed up at her apartment wearing a suit jacket and bearing my gifts. She politely asked me in and directed me to sit down, her aloof demeanor immediately setting off alarm bells. There was an awkward pause. “I have reservations for 7:00,” I said, filling the silence. 

She looked at me solemnly and declared, “I can’t go with you tonight.” 

“But it’s Valentine’s Day,” I replied weakly. 

“Yes, and I have another date,” she said matter-of-factly.

I stared at her dumbfounded. She glared back. “You left me alone,” she said, “and I got lonely.” 

“It was less than a week,” I protested. 

“Five whole days!” she countered. “What did you expect?”  

I didn’t expect much from Valentine’s Day for a long time after that. 

Since I’ve been married, my attitude about the once-a-year romantic holiday has improved, but it has never been a big deal. My wife and I put no pressure on one another to do anything out of the ordinary, though we often plan a special dinner, either at a restaurant or at home. Receiving gifts is neither of our “love languages,” so we don’t bother much. We prefer to work at filling each other’s love tank 365 days a year. We speak words of encouragement to one another, we do little things for each other unprompted, we talk a lot, we make each other laugh, we take trips together, we always kiss goodnight. And it works well for us. We have made a good effort at keeping the romance going, but for the most part, we have treated February 14 just like any other normal day—just like we treat two of our kids’ birthdays, both of them smack dab in the middle of November.

Yeah, they did the math too. :)

© Nick Walker 2021

What about you? Love it or not? Feel free to scroll down and leave a comment below.