The Holiday I Love to Hate

Thirty years ago today, when I was nearly six, I got a brother for Valentine's Day.  Now mind you, I was not the little girl pining away for a sibling, someone to dress up in little clothes and coddle and nurture.  I already had adoring parents, a dog, a kitten, a pony...who needs a little sister or brother to encroach on all that great turf?  But nevertheless, a little brother I got.  And that is when my confliction with Valentine's Day began.  

How can someone you're not all that thrilled about get their own holiday, complete with school parties, candy, cards, a color theme?  I tried not to be hostile about this growing up, but I didn't really see the fairness of him, a boy even, getting such a boon when my own birthday never even happened while we were in school.  One the last day of school, all of us summer birthday kids would get all lumped together with a generic, "Have a great summer! Oh, and happy birthday, too."  Boring.  Completely anticlimactic.  And what kind of cruel injustice makes it a holiday focused on sugar and love, when really, you might like to take this dirty little boy outside and leave him for the wolves?

I muddled along with a sense of benign indifference to this silly midwinter day.  And then came middle school.  Ugh.  Could there be anything more horrid and conflicted than Valentine's Day being celebrated by bunch of clumsy, bumbling blobs of hormones?  This is past the days when you were required to give Valentines to everyone.  Now you got to single out the people you liked, or at least not acknowledge the weird kid who hides under the table.  Valentine's Day became a day for a vast spectrum of awkwardness, hurt feelings, a little cruelty, and sometimes a lucky strike.  My first boyfriend, who I guess I didn't even know was my boyfriend at the time, gave me an enormous stuffed bear for Valentine's Day. It was on my desk after recess (How did he do that?!).  Given that I wasn't really sure he was my boyfriend, I obviously hadn't purchased anything for him.  That would have just been awkward. But the bear cleared that up in a hurry. But that sweet, kind gesture was clouded by the panic of (non) reciprocity.  Crap!  Now I have to buy a gift for a 12 year old boy.  What?!  What on earth do they like?!  And I live in Whitefield!  Crap again!!  Upon seeing me drag this enormous bear off the bus, embarrassed and elated, my fabulous, somewhat befuddled and amused mom beelined me to LaVerdier's in Littleton to find something appropriate, which I think ended up being a model car.  Which I then delivered to First Boyfriend* at his house, quickly and tersely with some lame excuse as to why I didn't have it at school and why we couldn't stay, because we had to get home for my brother's birthday.  

I still have that bear.  He's missing an eye and lives on a bench at my parents' house, standing sentinel over the other childhood toys.  That day marked my first "real" Valentine's Day, and now looking back in retrospect, the last time (until today) I was unsure about whether or not I actually had a Valentine.  Since I was 11 years old, I have never been without a Valentine, some boy to claim me as his on this silly Hallmark holiday.  In high school and through college I out and out boycotted the day, which I suppose is easier to do when you are sure there is someone willing to (not) celebrate it with you.  I lambasted it as capitalist, materialist, fake.  If you could not be nice to someone the other 364 days of the year, why choose this one to make up for it?  And yet I still received countless chocolates and flowers, books, and later, lingerie, dinner, sex (and more flowers and chocolate).*

I am not a hater of sweet gestures or shmarmy shows of affection.  I like the colors pink and red.  It's not that I'm not a romantic.  I love soft, touchy things, fireplaces and feather mattresses, walks or drives that end on the edge of moonlit water, a beautiful meal, someone to rub my back and stroke my hair, dancing close, love notes, little just right objects and inside jokes, and yes, sex and flowers and chocolates.  But for the love of all that is good, please, not on Valentine's Day.  

*Highlights reel:  

First Boyfriend (whose middle name-no kidding- happens to be Valentine) later became First Kiss (First Slow Dance went to the hot 8th grade boy who got up the courage to ask before First Boyfriend got around to it).  I broke up with him because he like the TV show MacGuiver better than he liked me.  Or so it seemed at the time.  I went to his wedding this past summer.   

Best Valentine's present: A bouquet of daisies from my best friend, who happened to be a guy. We were both dating someone else, but we loved each other dearly. Completely unexpected and hence perfect.

Whopper gifts I've given: My virginity.  Yup, trite and true.  Probably should have stuck with chocolates or cologne.  

Most Awkward: A bouquet of roses from a friend who I had no intention of dating. Ever.  He became a Special Ops Marine killing machine.  I hope that was not my fault, but perhaps the world is a safer place because of me.  

Second Most Awkward: A purple silk nightie and thong from Victoria's Secret.  Nice try, but a swing and a miss.  Wrong color, bad style for my body type.  Just not really me.  

Most recently most awkward: Flowers from my estranged husband, delivered while he was traveling out of town with his mistress.  But I guess they are pretty and the vase is heavy enough to use as a bludgeoning object.