Happy Valentine’s Day! Who doesn’t want to hear those words, accompanied by a heart-shaped box of chocolate, a bouquet of flowers (preferably roses), and a card covered in hearts and flowers (preferably roses)? I know that men, in particular, go nuts this time of year, trying to figure out what the perfect Valentine’s Day gift might be, depending on the length and status of their relationships.
What can a guy get his fairly new amour that won’t say “I’m not ready to commit just yet,” but also doesn’t say “I expect extra bonus sex for getting you this gift?” And what about the poor slob who’s been in a long-term relationship? (For all intents and purposes, we’re talking about a marital union here.) If he buys her candy, he’ll get hit with “You know I’m on a diet!” Flowers? If Valentine’s Day is the only time he ever gives his wife flowers—and she may remind him of that fact—then shame on him. And God help the husband who makes his wife a homemade card, the cheapskate.
How about lingerie? As much as a man may know his wife, I promise you, he does not know the size of anything she wears. These are the nebekhs (poor souls) who stand in Victoria’s Secret gesturing to the sales girls while repeating the mantra, “Oh, she’s about this big.” I’ll never forget passing a Victoria’s Secret store at closing time on the eve of Feb. 14. The plethora of guys running out of the shop, clutching pink bags of various sizes, made me think of a clown car unleashing its cargo. Come to think of it, that metaphor perfectly fits those bozos who shop at the last minute for their ladies at Victoria’s Secret. Come on, guys: Who are you really buying that black lace bustier with matching garter belt for? Oh sure, she gets to wear it—for you. Come on, man, that stuff isn’t cheap, so take that money and spring for some nice jewelry.
And hey, when did all the hubbub over some dead guy, who got the canonical nod from some dead pope, get started? Who is this St. Valentine, anyway? One story, via Wikipedia but originating in Belarus, tells of the lover Valentine, who was so heartbroken by being rejected by the object of his affections that he took a knife to his chest and sent her his still-beating heart as a token of his undying love (I don’t make this stuff up, you know). This is why heart-shaped cards are now sent as mementos of love.
A less horrific version from that venerable source states that Valentinus was a Roman priest who was arrested and imprisoned for marrying Christian couples who were being persecuted by the Roman emperor Claudius II. Valentinus was beheaded, thus becoming a martyr. Of course, the Vatican later gave him the axe as a bona fide saint. Oh well, that’s soul biz.
Speaking of martyrs, my mother already sent her valentine cards out. My spouse, the Brit, and I got ours two weeks ago. This woman is my rock, and I adore her. I say this not just to stay in the will (she does read my stuff), but because I mean it. Really, Mom. You’re the best. Never mind that you’ve already addressed this year’s Christmas cards, which will be mailed the week before Thanksgiving.
Mom is the kind of remarkable lady who, when she has a flight to catch, moves into the airport lounge a full 48 hours before the flight is scheduled to leave to make sure she’s all checked in and ready to board on time. And this is since Homeland Security took charge. Prior to that, she was more lax, arriving only 24 hours ahead of her flights.
Now that Mom’s valentine card is perched on our mantle, this means I have to get on the stick and get hers in the mail. Which means I have to get to the store and buy a card. What the heck, while I’m there I’ll get one for the Brit. And that reminds me, our grandson (the Mini-Brit) needs valentine cards for school.
How I remember Valentine’s Day in Catholic school, when the poor guy was still considered a saint. We’d all bring a shoebox to school, decorate it with red, pink, and white construction paper, and cut a slit in the lid. We’d have a party, with cupcakes, punch, and little candies with words printed on them, like “Be mine,” or “Sweetheart.” Then we’d drop little valentine cards with kewpie dolls or hearts and flowers printed on them into the little boxes of the kids we really liked. Later, in high school, all us girls would roll our eyes at the nerdy boys who ran around wearing a heart pin on their pullover vest and saying, “Look, I have a heart on for you! Happy V.D.! Get it?” Oh, good times.
Boy, have times changed. The little munchkins still decorate a box (I know, I was told by the Mini-Brit to find one), but now must give a card to every classmate. No one gets left out (a good policy, I think). Then there’s a party with juice boxes, carrot sticks, and applesauce (no sugar rushes there). The cards have everything from Disney princesses to Transformers printed on them. How do valentines with the Dark Knight and the Joker fit the occasion? And those little candies with the cute messages? Those have changed, too. “Call me” has been replaced on some candy hearts by “Text me,” “My love” with “Take a walk,” and “Be mine” with “Let’s sin.” I kid you not.
I’ll be celebrating the day with my guys, baking a heart-shaped bread pudding for the Brit (his favorite) and helping the Mini-Brit stuff 21 little cards into 21 tiny envelopes and seal them with 21 tiny stickers. But most of all, I’ll keep my Valentine tradition the way I always do because the simple ways are always the best. After all, love is not about going out on a date and on the drive home he says he’s run out of gas and you forgive him anyway. Love is when, 20 years later, you are snuggled together in bed and he says he’s run out of gas and you still forgive him. I love you, Ian.
I love you, too, Sammy. Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.
Ariel Waterman bought SpongeBob SquarePants valentines for the Mini-Brit. Send pineapples to her via her editor, Ryan Miller, at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Feb 12-19, 2009.
