Hating on Valentine’s Day is not uncommon. I too am one who rants against the overly commercialized holiday. But my rants aren’t about Hallmark cards or sappy ads or forced displays of affection. Truthfully, I support any opportunity to express love. This tirade isn’t about how I feel left out. I don’t even know if I want a boyfriend. (Though it would be nice to have someone around to change the light bulbs and take out the trash.)
Valentine’s Day is a bullshit holiday, because no one knows what to do with me. I don’t eat chocolate. Roses are tired and die too quickly. (I can barely take care of myself, let alone flowers.) Once, a boy took me to an expensive French restaurant although he should know I am uncomfortable eating around other people. Then there are too many “happy” couples crowding my favorite Lower East Side brunch spots. There isn’t even a bar seat where I can drink my Saturday morning mimosa(s).
The best Valentine I ever got was a simple text message a few years ago: “I wish we were avoiding this holiday together.” I was cooking dinner for my boyfriend and responded later: “So do I.”