I heard on the radio coming into work this morning that some liquor company is holding a “Why I Hate Valentine’s Day” contest. Apparently they claim that their liquor is some sort of aphrodisiac, and so they want people to love one another all year and not just on Valentine’s Day. The grand prize for the best explanation of why one hates Valentine’s Day? A lovely trip to Chicago, Illinois, where the winner and her or his guest will visit the site of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. Now that’s a happy Valentine’s Day.

This got me to thinking about all the years in which I was an avowed hater of Valentine’s Day myself. Of course, my virulence toward the holiday has abated somewhat, but I still reflexively sneer at the piles of Valentine’s Day candy that the stores put out, starting on January 2. Why in the world do we need to start buying Valentine’s Day candy as soon as the Christmas candy is cleared off the shelf anyway? So we can all gorge ourselves and then feel even more unattractive and miserable as the holiday approaches?

During my long years of singlehood, I found various ways of coping with this particular occasion. In high school, I just felt bad about myself as all the other kids around me got those roses that their boyfriends had bought at the Key Club fundraiser. Apparently the slew of adolescent secret admirers that were undoubtedly lusting after me preferred to remain secret.

In my first year of college, I declared all out war against the holiday. I spearheaded a movement to wear black on February 14, one joined by several of my equally intelligent, beautiful, and unattached friends. But I wouldn’t wear just any black. No, I pulled out my calf-high black boots, put on that black skirt, and marched through the school cafeteria with my head held high. I wasn’t going to let my dateless status affect my hotness!

By the time I was a resident assistant in the dorms, I had moderated a bit in my approach. For my students that year, I made two kinds of cards for February 14—for those happily in a relationship, the card was a little “Happy Valentine’s Day” pink heart. For everyone else, it was a black circle that said, “Happy Singles Awareness Day.”

In 2003, expecting to celebrate yet another Singles Awareness Day, the Coordinating Committee and I felt it would be particularly appropriate to have our spring meeting fall on the weekend of February 14. We decided to play into the stereotypes and be bitter and man-hating for the day (IMPORTANT NOTE: on the other 364 days of the year, members of NNPCW’s Coordinating Committee are NOT bitter man-haters and never have been. Pay no attention to that garbage can of flaming bras in the corner).

Actually, the truth is that we all brought our prettiest dresses and Lucy made us a special Puerto Rican dinner. But we did watch some of The Vagina Monologues, too.

Of course, that was the year I met David, aka The Bogdan. I still have the bootleg Spoon album he gave me for our first Valentine’s Day together, during that fateful CoCo meeting… where Lucy burned the rice and Kelsey and The Bogdan shared their first kiss in the parking lot of Camp Kavanaugh. Not exactly what I imagined for romance—actually, it was better.

So here’s to Valentine’s Day, Singles Awareness Day, whatever you’d like to call it. And here’s a little contest of our own, for the blog—to the person who can most convincingly state why they hate Valentine’s Day on this forum, I will personally call you and serenade you on the big day with the song of your choice (if I have your phone number, that is). Some folks say that I do a mean “Baby Got Back.”

“Jesus answered, ‘Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength. The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.” --Mark 12:29-31

Kelsey

Of course alcohol is an aphrodisiac; it impairs your judgments and increases the likelihood that you will have sex, with anyone.