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Every year at Valentine’s Day I would get one box of cards, a bag of suckers, and a roll of tape. I would stay up for hours addressing cards for my friends, well, my pretend friends. I wasn’t very popular because I was labeled as ‘gifted’ and was often singled out and used as an example for the rest of the class. That’s the kiss of social death for a fifth grader, you know.
Often I would address a few cards to the ‘cool’ kids that I wanted to be friends with, you know, just in case one of them gave me a card.
Having regular classes on Valentine’s Day seemed to be a complete waste of time, because all anyone could talk about or concentrate on was giving, and more importantly, getting cards from your friends. Our teachers understood that if we exchanged early in the day, the rest of the day would be a chaotic mess of sugar-hyped kids laughing, talking, and comparing cards. So of course, we would have to wait until the end of the day.
Everyone had a tissue box covered in construction paper and various decorations that we had spent the previous week and a half working on for our “art project.” The idea was that people would walk past your desk and drop your card in the box while you were out delivering your cards to other people.
Often, the only card in my box was from the teacher, but occasionally there would be a pity card and a Hershey’s Kiss waiting for me.* The pity cards always came from the same type of person, the popular girl who would spend the next two weeks talking about how generous and charitable it was of her to give me that Strawberry Shortcake-themed card with “You’re a good FRIEND” scrawled across it. ‘Friend’ was always underlined at least three times, just in case I harbored any Charlie Brown thoughts that the Valentine meant we would grow old together eating peanut butter sandwiches on a porch swing.
This scenario played out each and every year. And just like Charlie Brown and the football, I would swear that THIS time it would be different. This would be the year my box would overflow with cards actually addressed to me and meant for me, rather than the left over pity cards. Yeah, I would end up flat on my back staring up at the sky with tears in my eyes, too.
The holiday never got any better as I got older. Even when I became a bit more popular, I would be harshly reminded every February 14th just how the people around me felt. I would get the occasional card or ‘candygram’ in high school… but I never had a significant other with which to exchange flowers or gifts.
As an adult, a pattern emerged where the second week of February whatever relationship I was in would end. I would get dumped seemingly so that the dumper would not have to get me a Valentine’s Day gift or a birthday gift three days later. It was a brilliant plan if you think about it.
UMB was the first relationship that has managed to survive two Februarys. In fact, this is our 4th. We will celebrate our 5th anniversary in May.
UMB doesn’t care much for the holiday either. We don’t exchange gifts or make any special plans for Valentine’s Day. Usually we follow our same routine as any other day, including dinner with my aunt. I have on occasion brought home a bouquet of flowers for Valentine’s Day, but it’s not something I feel I have to do.
I’m just glad I don’t have to stare into my empty tissue box and cry “Good Grief!”
[As I was writing that last paragraph, UMB came home from the store with a pretty bouquet of white carnations and said "For My Valentine." He's so sweet.]
* You may recall that I hate chocolate.
