Monday, February 14, 2011

Why I Hate Valentine's Day

I won't waste your time or mine describing the basis for my Valentine's Day disdain. Suffice it to say that most individuals--regardless of their relationship status--revile today for imposing itself so uniformly on the masses...

...and the tacky places that summon them with red roses and stuffed bears, including the Logan Circle Whole Foods, a place that eerily resembles CVS while adorned with such excessive holiday embellishments.

I have never seen such chaos, except for winter 2010 when blizzards threatened to cut off power, water, and all resources available to the city's then-anxious citizens. This evening's shopping maelstrom leads me to conclude that we owe credit for this V-Day chaos to men, who are such poor planners that they cannot imagine buying groceries or flowers any time before 6:15pm on February 14. 

Valentine's Day has committed more than this paltry offense against me. I awoke one year to pink eye in both eyes, the first and only time, I should add, that I ever suffered from this illness. Several years ago, I hosted my annual Anti-Valentine's Day party. The theme of my party inspired a pretty outlandish (albeit sexy) outfit: black leather pants and boots; a skimpy top and black motorcycle jacket. Unfortunately, I allowed myself to fall a little too deep into character, channeling angry biker chic by about 11pm. With a full house downstairs, I took my angry self to bed on the top level of the London flat I shared with two of my friends. And then, a most shocking turn of events: a boy, a cute one at that, gently knocked on my bedroom door. He emerged, eager to check on me and perhaps raise my spirits, but within moments my devilish cat (part-Bobcat, I'm sure) pounced on him, clawing at his arms, driving him away without hesitation.

The most ludicrous 2011 moment occurred midway through today, when I exited my apartment for a cup of coffee. Outside my door, carefully positioned so as not to fall, was a large box of flowers. Confused and delighted, I immediately assumed that my parents had taken pity on me and sent me flowers from their loved-up home in Texas. How wrong was I, discovering instead a different address on the crisp label: apartment 305.

The exact opposite of my unit, apartment 503. I huffed and puffed, retracted my imaginary thank-you to my parents and stomped down the stairwell to the third floor, where I deposited the flowers at the doorstep of their rightful owner.