Tuesday, February 14, 2006
The Valentine's Day Debacle
It seems to be a curious phenomena that every year, on this very day, I happen to be thinking precisely the same thing. "I friggin hate Valentine's Day." Now, understand that this is not a function of not being in a committed relationship (although I haven't been for quite a few years). Even when I was in "love" (and I use that term to loosely encompass obsession, low-self esteem, insanity, and divinity) I hated Valentines Day.
For a long time I linked it to the Valentines Day of my eleventh year. That was an interesting day indeed. It was rainy and I was stuffed into a poofy dress that was stuffed between my stepbrother on one side and my infant brother on the other side. It was raining outside and I remember that my brother, barely two years old, rested his head against the window. He was sleeping and his short breaths, accentuated by a mid-winter cold, made small clouds against the glass that expanded and shrunk with his snores. We were lost, hopelessly lost. We were supposed to be going to a church so that my mother and my stepfather could make their already 7 year relationship "honest" by taking vows of marriage. What ensued was a comedy of errors that even today makes me a believer of the wise words spoken by Shug Avery's minister father in the The Color Purple. "Maybe God is tryna tell you somethin'."
Eventually we found the church and the proceedings got underway and the events of the morning (oversleeping, getting lost, my baby brother's crankiness) could have been laughed off and put into the neat little box of "something always goes wrong at weddings." That is, until the itch started. It was a small nagging itch in the car. It was up my arm on a bump that looked like a small mosquito bite. Had I been a bit older (or had I paid more attention in health class) I would have known that the mosquitoes had long since died and that their ambitious offspring were probably still larvae in an egg sack somewhere, but all that is beside the point. Just as the minister was asking if there was anyone who could find just cause for them not to be married (among the ten or so friends and family that attended the ceremon, of which us kids were five), I noticed that there were now seven bumps where they used to be one. Now I wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed back then, but I knew that mosquito bites did not procreate. So I tapped my step-brother, who tapped my step-sister, who tapped my aunt, who nearly back-handed my stepsister and all pointed to my arm. Though the attempt was made to keep it quiet, just as the minister was pronouncing my mother and my stepfather man and wife, a small crowd had gathered around me to witness my rapid transformation into a piece of bubble paper. That's right, people, I got the chicken pox in the middle of my mother's wedding. Not surprisingly, the marriage lasted about fourteen more months and then crashed and burned. Three lessons I learned that day: #1 pay attention to omens; #2marriage can screw up an otherwise fabulous relationship; #3 Valentine's Day is a destructive self-fullfilling prophecy of a disastrous day.
For years I toted the "Wedding Day debacle," as I now call it, as my sole reason for hating Valentine's Day but at age 29, on the cusp of my fourth decade on this great planet, I need to come clean. This is not the reason that I hate Valentine's Day.
For the longest time I could not quantify why exactly I despised the day so much. It started with a feeling in my stomach as I woke up that day. I turn on the tv and there are news stories of wierd ways men have proposed to women, flower shops charging $100 a dozen for roses, and features on how to select the best cut and clarity of diamond for your budget. Point of Contention #1: (even though I already know the answer to this question...) Why are all American holidays centered around either a) eating things that will clog our arteries and/or give us Type 2 Diabetes or b) spending exorbitant amounts of money on gifts? Yes, you know the answer too. So basically before I even get out of bed, I'm annoyed with the day already. Then, there's the phone calls. My friends all know that I'm single and at age 29 apparently this fact turns into a tragedy comparable only Hamlet or West Side Story perhaps, so my friends have to call "just to you I love you." Point of Contention #2: unless it's showing affection for a group of people that by nature should not have a romantic significant other (i.e. your kids or your pet), why do people try to pretend that the holiday is about "love" in general? We all know this is not the case so why don't we end the charade? So basically, before I've even gone out the door I am so over Valentine's Day. But then I have to sit at work all day and watch the march of the delivery men. I'm convinced that Gershwin could have made a whole musical out of this routine. They come in one by one and exchange pleasantries with our front desk receptionist who is, thankfully, just as cynical about the holiday as I am. Then everyone "oohs" and "aaahs" the flowers as if they aren't the same damn flowers that came at 9:15, 9:30, 9:42, and 10:06. The only real entertainment comes when the occasional bouquet of yellow roses arrives. These pique my interest because we all should know that yellow roses are for friendship, not love, so we have to watch to see who comes and claims them and what their reaction is. Now if the reaction is "awww, my sorority sisters are so precious," this spectacle was a waste of ten seconds of my life that I can never get back, but if the receiver of the flowers opens the card, reads it, and with a confused expression says, "oh. how nice" that makes my whole day better. You see, it's not deriving enjoyment from another's bad fortune (well, maybe a little), but moreso that the farce of this day is revealed.
Which brings me back to why I friggin' hate Valentine's Day (did I mention that I friggin' hate Valentine's Day?). It's not the flowers, or the candy, or the romantic notion. It's the implication people. The implication that romantic love is this goal to which we should all aspire. That we should live our lives searching for our "soul mate" and that when we find him or her then, and ONLY then, have we found true bliss. And if you haven't managed to find that person yet? If you are one of the throngs of poor rejects that has not managed to pair up with someone? Well, then the holiday is not about romantic love. It's about love in general. Anyone can love anyone, they tell you, and Valentine's Day is a celebration of that love. Well here's a newsflash Valentine's people. Romantic love is not the end all-be all (and I'm not just saying that because I'm not currently in love). There are many other things that are important in life. Achieving your goals, finding your passion, helping others, being a good person (Paris Hilton). So the point I'm trying to make here is that instead of having a holiday that embellishes the experience of romantic love (and, in essence, ostracizing all who don't happen to be engaged in it at that present time), why not have a holiday that celebrates the way we express our love of all things: action. Why not celebrate what we do, who we are, where we go, why we are. Or, if we do celebrate Valentine's Day, celebrate it with a sincere emphasis on all love instead of just romantic love.
I know, I know, I sound like a lonely heifer who is just crying foul because I don't "gotta man." But seriously, there is so much more to me than my romantic self that I feel like it is a disservice to only celebrate that side of myself with anyone I date. I think that when we as a culture start to value our gifts to the world and to one another as a larger community, we'll all see that Valentine's Day is a cheap ploy on the part of the chocolate, diamond, and rose industries to fool us into buying the dream, but the real question is, will you still love the dream tomorrow.
Next post: not so serious I promise!
For a long time I linked it to the Valentines Day of my eleventh year. That was an interesting day indeed. It was rainy and I was stuffed into a poofy dress that was stuffed between my stepbrother on one side and my infant brother on the other side. It was raining outside and I remember that my brother, barely two years old, rested his head against the window. He was sleeping and his short breaths, accentuated by a mid-winter cold, made small clouds against the glass that expanded and shrunk with his snores. We were lost, hopelessly lost. We were supposed to be going to a church so that my mother and my stepfather could make their already 7 year relationship "honest" by taking vows of marriage. What ensued was a comedy of errors that even today makes me a believer of the wise words spoken by Shug Avery's minister father in the The Color Purple. "Maybe God is tryna tell you somethin'."
Eventually we found the church and the proceedings got underway and the events of the morning (oversleeping, getting lost, my baby brother's crankiness) could have been laughed off and put into the neat little box of "something always goes wrong at weddings." That is, until the itch started. It was a small nagging itch in the car. It was up my arm on a bump that looked like a small mosquito bite. Had I been a bit older (or had I paid more attention in health class) I would have known that the mosquitoes had long since died and that their ambitious offspring were probably still larvae in an egg sack somewhere, but all that is beside the point. Just as the minister was asking if there was anyone who could find just cause for them not to be married (among the ten or so friends and family that attended the ceremon, of which us kids were five), I noticed that there were now seven bumps where they used to be one. Now I wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed back then, but I knew that mosquito bites did not procreate. So I tapped my step-brother, who tapped my step-sister, who tapped my aunt, who nearly back-handed my stepsister and all pointed to my arm. Though the attempt was made to keep it quiet, just as the minister was pronouncing my mother and my stepfather man and wife, a small crowd had gathered around me to witness my rapid transformation into a piece of bubble paper. That's right, people, I got the chicken pox in the middle of my mother's wedding. Not surprisingly, the marriage lasted about fourteen more months and then crashed and burned. Three lessons I learned that day: #1 pay attention to omens; #2marriage can screw up an otherwise fabulous relationship; #3 Valentine's Day is a destructive self-fullfilling prophecy of a disastrous day.
For years I toted the "Wedding Day debacle," as I now call it, as my sole reason for hating Valentine's Day but at age 29, on the cusp of my fourth decade on this great planet, I need to come clean. This is not the reason that I hate Valentine's Day.
For the longest time I could not quantify why exactly I despised the day so much. It started with a feeling in my stomach as I woke up that day. I turn on the tv and there are news stories of wierd ways men have proposed to women, flower shops charging $100 a dozen for roses, and features on how to select the best cut and clarity of diamond for your budget. Point of Contention #1: (even though I already know the answer to this question...) Why are all American holidays centered around either a) eating things that will clog our arteries and/or give us Type 2 Diabetes or b) spending exorbitant amounts of money on gifts? Yes, you know the answer too. So basically before I even get out of bed, I'm annoyed with the day already. Then, there's the phone calls. My friends all know that I'm single and at age 29 apparently this fact turns into a tragedy comparable only Hamlet or West Side Story perhaps, so my friends have to call "just to you I love you." Point of Contention #2: unless it's showing affection for a group of people that by nature should not have a romantic significant other (i.e. your kids or your pet), why do people try to pretend that the holiday is about "love" in general? We all know this is not the case so why don't we end the charade? So basically, before I've even gone out the door I am so over Valentine's Day. But then I have to sit at work all day and watch the march of the delivery men. I'm convinced that Gershwin could have made a whole musical out of this routine. They come in one by one and exchange pleasantries with our front desk receptionist who is, thankfully, just as cynical about the holiday as I am. Then everyone "oohs" and "aaahs" the flowers as if they aren't the same damn flowers that came at 9:15, 9:30, 9:42, and 10:06. The only real entertainment comes when the occasional bouquet of yellow roses arrives. These pique my interest because we all should know that yellow roses are for friendship, not love, so we have to watch to see who comes and claims them and what their reaction is. Now if the reaction is "awww, my sorority sisters are so precious," this spectacle was a waste of ten seconds of my life that I can never get back, but if the receiver of the flowers opens the card, reads it, and with a confused expression says, "oh. how nice" that makes my whole day better. You see, it's not deriving enjoyment from another's bad fortune (well, maybe a little), but moreso that the farce of this day is revealed.
Which brings me back to why I friggin' hate Valentine's Day (did I mention that I friggin' hate Valentine's Day?). It's not the flowers, or the candy, or the romantic notion. It's the implication people. The implication that romantic love is this goal to which we should all aspire. That we should live our lives searching for our "soul mate" and that when we find him or her then, and ONLY then, have we found true bliss. And if you haven't managed to find that person yet? If you are one of the throngs of poor rejects that has not managed to pair up with someone? Well, then the holiday is not about romantic love. It's about love in general. Anyone can love anyone, they tell you, and Valentine's Day is a celebration of that love. Well here's a newsflash Valentine's people. Romantic love is not the end all-be all (and I'm not just saying that because I'm not currently in love). There are many other things that are important in life. Achieving your goals, finding your passion, helping others, being a good person (Paris Hilton). So the point I'm trying to make here is that instead of having a holiday that embellishes the experience of romantic love (and, in essence, ostracizing all who don't happen to be engaged in it at that present time), why not have a holiday that celebrates the way we express our love of all things: action. Why not celebrate what we do, who we are, where we go, why we are. Or, if we do celebrate Valentine's Day, celebrate it with a sincere emphasis on all love instead of just romantic love.
I know, I know, I sound like a lonely heifer who is just crying foul because I don't "gotta man." But seriously, there is so much more to me than my romantic self that I feel like it is a disservice to only celebrate that side of myself with anyone I date. I think that when we as a culture start to value our gifts to the world and to one another as a larger community, we'll all see that Valentine's Day is a cheap ploy on the part of the chocolate, diamond, and rose industries to fool us into buying the dream, but the real question is, will you still love the dream tomorrow.
Next post: not so serious I promise!
# posted by Bariatric Foodie @ 7:53 AM 
