I know perfectly well that it’s a cliche to hate Valentine’s Day. Worse, it’s a cliche that everyone expects from me, as I am, in fact, a thirty-seven-year-old single lady. I should point out that I don’t hate Valentine’s Day because I am a thirty-seven-year-old single lady. I hate it because it is fun to hate it. I expect it’s much more fun than it is to participate in it.
I mean, come on: you’re expecting me to believe that you actually look forward to a day on which couples obsess over making everything perfect? Is it really enjoyable to spend hours looking for a piece of jewelry that says “I am very fond of you” without adding “and I think we should get married relatively soon”? Do you look forward to dissolving into tears because you couldn’t get a reservation wherever? Is this actually a necessary part of your life?
I’m sure some couples have fun on Valentine’s Day. I’m also sure that even more secretly long for it to be over. As for us supposedly sad, lonely singles: why should we care? It gets the schmoopsy couples out of our hair for one night, and the next day, there’s half-price chocolate at Shoppers.
I plan to spend Valentine’s Day marking, mostly because I plan to spend every day this week marking. I’ll also probably edit part of an MBA thesis and update a lecture on sitcoms. Then I’ll burn some sparkly pink hearts and chase nuzzling couples around Toronto with a laser. All in all, it will probably be quite a good day.