I recently discovered that Saint Valentine, the bearded fella that presides over the eponymous day of love, is also the patron saint of the black plague. Take from that what you will, but I think it’s a nice validation for urbane sentiment that sees the celebration as a blight – the city awash in red hearts and the pestilence of zero restaurant seating.
For myself, I’ve fallen somewhere between the cracks of the love/hate split. As a romantic-at-heart who has spent the last 10 years single on this particular day (Cupid has had an interesting sense of humour in this regard), I’ve not really been able to comfortably settle on a ‘for’ or ‘against’.
And I’m not a sure that kind of polarised view of Valentine’s Day does it any justice. Because there is some justice to it that I think is worth acknowledging. Think about it. As a kid, it’s the first celebration day you’re introduced to that isn’t about family or you getting something. At least it was for me.
I grew up as a single child in a Christian culture, so we had Christmas (presents for me) and Easter (chocolate eggs for me); then there was the Tooth Fairy (money for stuff that I didn’t need or want anymore) and the only birthday that mattered – mine (more presents for me). Then there was Mother’s Day and Father’s Day and Other People’s Birthdays, but really the former was only there because I was there, and OPB meant sweets and fun for me.
But Valentine’s Day. Now that was something else.
This was about other people and not just other people – a specific other person. When you’re introduced to Valentine’s Day as a kid, your grade school teacher is basically asking you to seek out, examine and declare your feelings for a specific other person. And you declare it by making and giving little cards to the object of your possible affection.
Of course, the practice starts wide and narrows its focus with each passing year. First you make a card for anyone, then you make a card for your best friend, then – Ah! the moment of truth: you make a secret card for Someone Special.
All your softness, your first sense of sweetheart otherness wrapped up in the hope and thrill of actual giving, of revealing your ‘like’, handing over something precious that you have no idea is precious: your self-esteem.
Because either you get a card back, or your life is dashed to the ground as Melanie, the pretty redhead, gets your one true love’s attention and only the most popular girls get all the flowers, all the balloons and all the cards.
It’s crushing. And I believe it’s at this point that tiny hearts polarize into either loving or hating the day. You either gave your heart and got one in return, or you gave your heart and got the sinking feeling of rejection in return. Love or the plague. I do believe that Saint Valentine is in bed with Cupid when it comes to a silly sense of humour.
I think it set the tone of general dread come 14 February for the rest of my student life. Of course, Valentine’s Day changed for me over the years, often swinging between a profound boredom with the commercial hoopla and an irritating sense of FOMO.
Some were spent with lovers, some alone, some traveling. In later years it became a celebration day for me and my single friends, a ‘raise your glass’ to the love we wanted or lost, felt for each other or envied in others.
Whether you love the day or hate it, you can’t ignore it, so better spend it surrounded by the love you have, right?
Now, after 10 Valentineless years, this is the first that I’ll have someone to make cheesy arrangements with. I can’t pretend I’m not looking forward to it. And why not? If I can’t make a fuss about Father Christmas or the Tooth Fairy anymore, why not make a fuss of all the love fluff for one day a year.
So I’ve thrown intellectual and principled caution to the wind and am rewinding to the first time I carefully coloured in a handmade heart card. At least this time I know I’ll get one in return.
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