I know what you are expecting. You are expecting me to rage against the darkest, most evil of all holidays…
Kidding. Clearly, I am referring to Valentine’s Day. You know—the one that is constantly inspiring insipid commercials about releasing your inner cupid.
Every year in my "single" history, I’ve battled the holiday by sending out kiddie valentines to my single friends (and some not single, but in the spirit). Snoopy, Barbie, Nemo, Scooby—the gang was all there. Alas, it didn’t happen this year. So, to the people who used to get them and don’t receive them this year, it’s not because I hate you. Well, I do, of course, but that’s not why you didn’t get a valentine. I just didn’t have it in me.
This year, I’m going to do something different. I am going to share a good Valentine’s Day memory. Hey, it’s not that shocking. There was bound to be at least one.
It started like any other Valentine’s Day: I was avoiding it. I had a boyfriend. I actually liked him. Those two things didn’t always go together. I told him right off the bat that he better not do anything for Valentine’s Day. I was having none of that sappy, over-commercialized, Hallmark-holidayness.
He took me at my word. Hmph. He didn’t mention it. I saw him in class, and we had dinner in the dining hall. Hmph. Well, he could have put a little effort into convincing me that it wasn’t Satan’s own holiday. But it was good. He respected me enough to honor my opinion. Sure. Fine. Whatever.
I went to bed completely satisfied that I had gotten what I wanted. Yep. Lucky, lucky me.
At 12:01 am on February 15th, he snuck into my room and woke me up. He had roses and a smile.
And I just knew I was in very big trouble.
Thinking about this now, I’m sorely tempted to leave my apartment door unlocked this year. LA is safe, right?