Clearly, I had calendar issues: Valentine’s Day is for conceiving children, not giving birth to them. What was it about flirtation, fine dining and candlelight that I didn’t get?
I suppose I’d got all those romantic trappings nine months earlier. There’s that.
Interesting word choice, “trappings.” I am trapped indeed after Son #1 arrives on February 14. While Husband and I ditched the heart cakes and streamers years ago, the kid is doomed to swimming in an annual birthday sea of cupids and candy and roses.
I tell him he’s the better man for it.
But escape from Valentine’s Day is no longer possible. I am doomed, too.
I always hated February 14. It stood for rejection and sorrow and envy and despair. It highlighted my long history of hopeless unrequited crushes (grade school, high school, college and beyond).
In retrospect, all that exercise in futility kept me safe; perhaps it was subconscious self-protection. I should re-frame this old woe! I should pat myself proudly on the back and celebrate all those dates I never had! All’s well that ends well, after all.
Still, I will forever hate those little KISS ME hearts.
In third grade, one fine Valentine morning, I was standing outside school with my best friend when the boy I desperately loved sauntered over, grinning. My heart leapt. He turned the grin on my friend and tossed her a box of those candy hearts with a wink.
I haven’t cared much for winks since then, either.
This year, as therapy, I bought a big bag of Sweethearts and set it out to share on my desk. People invariably read them aloud to me and laugh. I try not to wince. Today, I even ate one.
And, yes, you can love desperately in third grade. I’ll bet you did, too.