Valentine’s Day is my least favorite holiday.
This is probably not a surprise to anyone, it’s practically a cliché. Single female finding the holiday dedicated to romance unappealing. Check.
While the roots of my disdain can be found in all the typical things that you’re thinking about, there are a few other things about the holiday that push it higher on my list of “painful things that must be endured.” It’s currently situated right above commercials with that creepy King, and below dental surgery.
First of all, it’s pink. Okay, there’s red, too. A few minutes after the ball has dropped in Times Square, the holiday aisles at the store slough off their greens and reds, and don the single notes of red in every hue imaginable. This includes “liquid digestive remedy” pink. It’s a crime against the senses. All of those cutesy non-anatomically correct hearts accented with frills? It’s enough to give reformed Scrooge a diabetic coma.
Then there’s the candy. Sure, chocolate is fine, but, those collections of chocolate at the store have been there since just after New Year’s, which means they were mass-produced so long ago that there were only 18 Duggar children. Most of the chocolate sold in this way is tasteless, with a waxy texture. The (one assumes) once creamy and decadent fillings have gone hard and crystallized. Frankly, these “confections” are a crime against the sanctity of chocolate.
In addition to those vile chocolates, there’s those horrifying conversation hearts. It would be kind to say they tasted like medicine. These are chalky blobs of hardened hatred. The obnoxious “adorable” text becomes almost sinister should you decide to put the nasty thing in your mouth. “I luv u” becomes a big fat lie when you have to find a polite way to rid your mouth of the offensive partially dissolved hell-candy.
While I’m not opposed to romance in general, it feels like all the expectations of those rows upon rows of frilly cards, waxy chocolate and stale, crappy candy don’t really foster sincere romantic thoughts. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m too jaded to see it.
In my more cynical moments, I admit that I tend to refer to the holiday only by its initials, aka, “VD*.” Yes, I admit, it’s childish and has an edge of schadenfreude. I’m human, after all.
I like the idea of moving the holiday away from its raging insincerity, and the awkward connection to “couples,” and to a more universal notion of celebrating love, and advocating people take the time to do something thoughtful for another human being on this day. Naturally, I’d like those thoughtful things to be done to me. And I’d like them to involve something other than the things found in the “pink” aisle at the supermarket. You all can do much, much better than that.
*VD – French for “Google it later.”