I've never been a huge fan of Valentine's Day.
It doesn't make me giddy.
It doesn't make me concerned about reservations.
It makes me roll my eyes a whole heckuva lot, actually.
I'm one of the schmaltziest people you'll meet, but this day just doesn't do it for me.
In elementary school, there was the compulsory card exchange, when even the girl who hated my guts and bullied me regularly had to give me a card. I began to doubt the sincerity of the messages that could conveniently convert "Your butt is mine" to "Be mine" for a single day.
In the sixth grade, taken with the whole idea of secret admirers, I slipped a sweet little card and a box of chocolates into the desk of my longtime crush. By the end of the day, some other girl claimed that she had given him the gifts, and they started going steady.
In the tenth grade, while attempting to pay attention in history class and stop thinking about my recently broken heart, I looked out the window to see my ex-boyfriend and his friends unrolling a huge poster: "I love you --" and the name that followed was not mine, but the name of the girl who sat next to me in class.
Two years later, just in time for Valentine's Day, I published an article in the school newspaper entitled "Hearts and Cyanide," a diatribe against all things valentine, pink, red, lovey dovey, and the like. It was a huge hit with the broken-hearted contingent on campus...and not such a huge hit with the ex-boyfriend who inspired the piece.
Flash forward to the happily married me, who is still surprised when her husband gives her anything on Valentine's Day, since my expectations of this day have been traditionally low. Every year, though, he seems to know how to keep it real while still making my heart get all a-flutter. He knows me, and every one of his gifts proves it.
Today I awoke to a card and chocolates waiting for me on my desk (he knew that it would be the first place I'd head on a Saturday morning). We went out for lunch (trying to beat the dinner rush), and I even wore red -- me, the girl who used to call this day "V.D." To make the day even sweeter, my husband accompanied me to my LSS, where I picked up some new MME and BG goodies.
I'm still not a total V-Day convert -- just ask my seventh grade girls, whose eyes boggled when I announced yesterday, "Put those stuffed animals away in my class or expect to see a bonfire in the middle of the field outside."