Can you feel the love?

Uh... nope! I don't do Valentine's Day. Call it what you will, maybe I'm bitter (in fact, you can check that version of me out over here. Please forgive the lack of content, it's new.), but I just don't like this day. It makes me uncomfortable. I think there's a lot of unfair pressure put on this day. For one, someone (usually the man) has to find a way to accurately sum up his feelings for his woman by magically finding the correct combination of overpriced, purchased crap (for more of my thoughts on overpriced crap, click here). Talk about pressure! If he doesn't do enough, his lady is going to think he doesn't care. If he does too much, his true love may think he's trying too hard, maybe attempting to make up for some un-confessed past misdeed... On the other hand, females feel some pressure on this day too (or at least I do). We are obligated to react to our counter-part's half-assed attempt at expressing their inner most feelings towards us through heart-shaped boxes and glittery Hallmark cards. Bleck.

I'm not sure when my contempt for this "holiday" began. Maybe it was in the fifth grade when I clearly remember having my heart crushed. My object of affection du jour hadn't even acknowledged me or the very thoughtful valentine (it was extra special because I had covered it in kisses before recess by the lockers) I secretly slipped into his shoebox "mailbox." (I was never the type of girl to make the first move. My mom had ingrained it into my head that good girls don't do that.) I was devastated.

Or maybe it was in high school. One year there was a Valentine's Day in which I was being pursued by two fellers (I'm not bragging. This isn't as fantastic as it sounds, trust me). These two gents took it upon themselves to use this day o' love as an opportunity to outdo each other with ridiculously useless gifts. I was swamped by roses (which I hate) and stuffed teddy bears too big to fit in my locker (gee, thanks, now what the hell do I do with this?), forcing me to haul them around to every class. I hate attention, and I blush very easily. I was mortified.

I insist every year that I don't want anything (which apparently means in girl-talk that I do in fact want something for V-day, at which point I have to once again mention that I am not your typical girl). No, really, I don't want anything. Please, don't even wish me a Happy Valentine's Day, because once you do I'll be obligated to say it back to you, therefore acknowledging the existence of this day that I loathe. If I want to tell you how I feel, I'll tell you how I feel (but most likely I won't). I don't need a special day to do it (or not do it).

To date, my most memorable Valentine's Days (above examples excluded) include the one where we took a trip to the McDonald's drive-thru, hit-up the corner store and rented a few movies (we were in college. This means of celebration may or may not have been influenced by an illicet substance). My other favorite V-day was the one in which I received this simple note, "Wanna be my valentine? Despite my lack of effort and spent money." Well, gee, when you put it that way, how can I resist?