It’s happened. February began yesterday, and I think I’ve already succumbed to my annual gloom and despair. Now, I am not a pessimistic person. On the contrary, I have been described by kind people as “incorrigibly optimistic” and by honest people as “irritatingly chipper.” I see the sunny side of life, the butter-up side of the toast. However, I must admit: I hate Valentine’s Day. Yup, I loathe the whole commercialized, sappy, mushy romantic nonsense of the 14th of February. It’s not that I dislike love; I just feel like taking one day to celebrate everything that is trite and banal about romance is ridiculous. The emphasis on this clicheed version of romance, on posessing, on coupling, on going steady, on doing things that society sees as “sweet” and “romantic” and “girly,” it devalues the true power of love. If you’re in love, if you love in any way, every day should be special. It astounds me, the number of people who act conventionally romantic and mushy on February 14th and spend the other 364 days (365 on a leap year) being selfish, inconsiderate drama-mongers. Not that there is any shortage of drama on the dreaded V-Day, what with people breaking up, being clingy, and throwing fits. Why don’t we celebrate the love of humanity on V-Day, or the love of God, the Universe, or whatever higher being people acknowledge?
Maybe I’m just a Grinch whose heart is two sizes too small, or maybe it’s just that I’ve never gotten anything heart-meltingly romantic on V-D (how many people do you figure get VD on V-D?), but I just get annoyed at the whole thing and end up buying myself the biggest box of bon-bons I can find to soothe my frazzled nerves. I propose we all wear black on Valentine’s Day this year and eat lots of bitter food. Smoke cigarettes, drink black coffee, and read Dorothy Parker all day long.
It’s awful, isn’t it? This one day has the power to turn me into such a cynic! I’m never this unpleasant about love, except in reference to the Twilight series, and I will argue to my dying day that stalking an underage girl until she falls in love with your emotionally abusive, blood-sucking, hundred-year-old vampire self is not so much romantic as it is creepy.
But I digress. February has always been my worst month. There is something about the lack of sunshine – combined with the drudge of second semester and the feeling that spring is forever away – that sucks the lifeforce out of me. Now add to that effect Valentine’s Day, with its throngs of emotionally unhinged, temporarily insane women and perpetually perplexed men who cannot understand that what a girl really wants is for her fella to ask her how she’s doing, what she’s thinking, and whether she prefers cherry cordials or the mixed chocolate box; and you get me at my worst . You know, you can tell a lot about a woman based on what kind of chocolate she eats. If she goes for the mix box of chocolate, you can tell she’s adventurous, because (as the man said) you never know what you’re going to get. If she wants cherry cordials, she’s either a sophisticated, classy broad with old-world tastes, or she’s a total alkie. If she likes the Dove chocolates, she’s a little more thrifty, with an appreciation for her man’s wallet. if she prefers the 100-calorie packs…run away. Far, far away. Now me, I’m an equal-opportunity chocolate lover. Belgian, swiss, American, Asian, dark, white, milk, stuffed with nougaty heaven or peanuts so you can tell yourself you’re getting your protein in and it’s all good, I love it all.
So, basically, besides the chocolate, V-Day is a total bust. I would watch out for me on February 14th; really, I would. If I see one couple getting away with obnoxious PDAs in the Union, I might leap over the table, armed with a fork. I make no promises. No groper, smoocher or baby-talker is safe from me that day. Particularly the baby-talkers, because they manage to insult the English language while being disgusting, the vile multitaskers that they are.
After rereading this blog post, I’m tempted to erase it because it depicts me as some homicidal, single nutcase. I swear, I’m totally harmless! Mostly. Occasionally. Honestly, I’m just…spunky. That’s it.