The Day of the Valentines

 When I was seven years old and attending Will G. Price Elementary School, a reporter from the local newspaper came to do a fluff piece on little kids and Valentine’s Day. I remember I was sitting at my desk, going through my homemade Valentine box when he came over to interview me. “Did you get a Valentine from your boyfriend?” he asked with a cheezy grin and I was confused. “Ummm…” I whispered and he lost interest and left, looking for another child to question. What did he mean, I wondered. We gave Valentines to everyone in the class.  I remember looking around the room, my gaze settling on one of my favorite friends (who also happened to be a boy) and wondering if he was my boyfriend. Of course I got a Valentine from him, and I tried to catch the reporter’s eye again, to let him know that yes, I did have a boyfriend, but he had moved on.

Not too many years later, Valentine’s Day morphed from a fun class party with heart-shaped cookies and red punch to The Day of Crushed Expectations. Just being a teenager was hard enough, but add to that being a socially awkward, painfully shy nerd, and school was not a happy experience. The popular, pretty girls received notes and flowers while I perfected my “I don’t care” face and hid behind my waist-long hair. Nevertheless, each time I opened my locker, I held my breath for just a beat, hoping that a note might fall on the floor, and I would discover that someone had a secret crush on me. It never happened. I ate lunch with my socially awkward and nerdy friends in “C” hall, our backs against the lockers, laughing at the gooey-eyed couples and believing we were far too superior to participate in the silly relationship drama that ran rampant in high school. 

College was more interesting, living on a small campus in a small town and learning to navigate the almost-but-not-quite adult world of sex and relationships. I spent many nights (and some days) sobbing, heartbroken, in my room while listening to “Toto” and “Chicago,” vowing off men forever, only to be completely smitten the following week with the guy who had smiled at me over a beer at the Öl Stuga. In my junior year, a guy I knew from one of the fraternities dedicated a song on Valentine's Day on the radio station we all listened to. “This is from Mike to all the girls at Bethany College,” the DJ laughed, as the familiar strains of “Love Stinks” wafted through our collective stereo speakers. My roommate and I looked at each other and laughed, too.

 I eventually made peace with the day, after becoming an adult and gaining experience in the relationship arena. I had a few wildly romantic Valentine’s Days, more than a few disappointments, and a few unexpected surprises, but it wasn’t until after I had children that I truly came to love it again. Even though my husband might forget what day it was and then scramble to bring home flowers from the convenience store at supper time, it didn’t really bother me. Even though one of my coworkers routinely got obnoxiously large floral arrangements to display on her desk, I laughed it off. The real thrill was being a room mom at the elementary school and helping my daughters make homemade boxes to put their Valentines in, wrapping tissue roses around pipe cleaners as party favors, and making cupcakes with pink frosting for treats. It made me remember the innocence of my own childhood school parties, before girls became mean and boys became impossible. It was fun!

 

Now, my children grown, my romantic relationships non-existent, and the dog unable to buy me flowers, I more or less ignore February 14 (except to post a couple of snarky memes I find amusing). I feel sorry for the men these days, trying to meet the impossible standards set forth by Hallmark and Kay Jewelers, and I feel equally bad for the women who are told that if he REALLY cared, he would make some sweeping grand gesture to proclaim his love. I know that real love, while it can be full of romance and passion, is often quiet. It’s in the mundane, day-to-day routines, and could look like cleaning up after supper or taking the kids to the park or relinquishing the TV remote. It’s bringing home ice cream. It’s planning a date night. It’s putting another’s happiness above your own because that’s what love does. And, contrary to an old movie line, love means OFTEN saying “I’m sorry.”

 I hope to experience romance and passion again. I hope to have a relationship where I can make someone happy by loving them and being loved in return. My life is interesting and full as it is, and I have friends, family, and dreams. It would be wonderful to have someone to share my life with, but it would also take someone whose baggage matches mine, and there’s the challenge. It might not happen. But, then again, it might.