Valentine’s Day is a holiday that many, if not most people today, regard with general distaste and scorn if it’s even mentioned in conversation. I’ve heard all of the criticisms and I do agree with them — to an extent.
It alienates people who are not in relationships. It’s a glorified occasion that’s a flimsy excuse to needlessly pump money into the Hallmark consumerism that it generates within our society.
It can dwindle the love we should show our partners down to one, cheesy day, instead of every day, as it rightfully should be.
Yet, as much as I see the merit in all of these points, I have a dirty little secret that has nothing to do with the bedroom: I adore Valentine’s Day.
This feeling has existed since I was a little kid in elementary school.
I would eagerly look forward to making cards for everyone in my classes. I adored the garish schoolroom decorations and the nauseatingly pink and red crafts that would plaster every square inch of wall space.
Of course, I had very few complaints about the various candy, chocolate and heart-shaped baked goods that would be thrust into my sticky little hands at every turn.
It’s never worth it to rely on some fuckboy (or fuckgirl) for validation on a holiday attached to coversation hearts and waxy candy that tastes like disappointment and broken dreams.
When I was young, the holiday held a certain level of purity.
There weren’t any expectations or stressful factors attached to it and for almost everyone else I knew it was merely a day of fun.
As I grew older, my views towards Valentine’s Day didn’t budge.
I embraced it and used it as a way to treat myself and to show my friends how much I cared about them.
I’m one of the biggest hopeless romantics on the planet. I have always watched romantic comedies with an unnerving level of dedication and consumed books with even the slightest hint of romanticism frighteningly quick.
Jane Austen has been one of my heroes since I was ten and the idea of a man catching my attention who wasn’t like Mr. Darcy made me scoff.
My schmaltzy views on love have oddly increased my appreciation for Valentine’s Day and I’ve been single for most of my life.
Adding a boyfriend into the mix was just an added bonus; he was another person that I could smother with sappy notes, handmade cards and giant bears holding hearts that said “I Wuv U 4ever” on them.
I live for that silly crap.
I think the key to not looking at Valentine’s Day like it’s the end all to your worth as a person, in or out of a relationship, is to see it for what it is.
It’s a tacky occasion to show that you care, no matter who you care about; especially if that person is yourself.
Looking at it like it’s a day for self-care and pampering, or surrounding yourself with the people that make your heart happy, no matter who they are, is how I’ve managed to find joy in an otherwise pointless day.
It’s never worth it to rely on some fuckboy (or fuckgirl) for validation on a holiday attached to conversation hearts and waxy candy that tastes like disappointment and broken dreams.
Fuck society’s standards and expectations of what you should be doing.
Be a Bridget-Jones or a Mindy-Lahiri and prove that you can be content, regardless of whether or not you’re with someone (but without the added fluff of plot fillers and easily cleared up misunderstandings).
Besides, you can always find the real joy on Feb. 15, when all of the Valentine’s Day chocolate and candy is on sale.