I hate Valentine’s Day.
First, there are those candy hearts: The ones that say things like “Be Mine” and “True Love,” and in the romantic parlance of our time, “Tweet Me.” They’re nauseating, and not in a philosophical sense. They just taste hideous. They’re the candy corn of Valentine’s Day.
Second, it’s a capitalistic crock. Does anyone really need a cheap, stuffed monkey sporting a T-shirt reading “I’m Bananas Over You” or 17 pounds of heart-shaped marshmallow candy?
Third, and this is just me, but thanks to Eve Ensler and my Northeastern liberal arts college feminism degree, I feel guilty if I don’t go listen to women talk about their lady business every V-Day. I have enough guilt in my life, thank you.
Fourth, our kindergarten mentality never quite escapes us, does it? Remember sitting next to your little construction paper-decorated shoebox, trying not to cry because Maggie or Milly or Molly or Mae was getting more dime-store Peanuts valentines? It’s no different at 25 or 35, only now we wish impetigo on the overly affectio nate couples if we’re single and secretly compare our romantic plans to those of others if we’re coupled.