That’s about as much notice as Valentine’s Day has ever gotten from me.
Back in primary school, it was the thing to do to buy cheap, punch-out valentines and give them to every classmate. Our mums dutifully bought the things, and we dutifully wrote each of our classmate’s names on them. Everyone got a valentine from everyone else in the class–theoretically, anyway. It didn’t really work out that way and, frankly, most of us didn’t care much one way or another.
As I grew older and started to consider boys as more than just good companions for knife-throwing and tree-climbing competitions, Valentine’s Day became more fraught with meaning. I dodged it as often as possible, and don’t remember ever once going on a date on Valentine’s Day. It just seemed…icky, and doomed to be awkward.
So I was relieved to discover, once I was married, that my husband avoided Valentine’s Day like the plague, too. We have managed to forget Valentine’s Day for nearly 25 years.
It was made easier by the fact our son was born four days before the holiday–we’re celebrated out when V-Day rolls around. Gives us a legitimate excuse to thumb our noses at pre-printed expressions of love and devotion, bad chocolate, and flying babies brandishing weapons.
So once again, we’ll be having an altValentine’s Day here. If either of us remembers tomorrow, we’ll put on a fake doe-eyed expression and laughingly wish the other a happy Valentine’s Day. More likely, we’ll both forget, until Google or FaceBook dutifully reminds us. Then we’ll go about our normal day, expressing our love in the ordinary things we do together that make us happy. It will be a day like any other, and no less filled with love than if it also included flowers and Hallmark greeting cards.
And the best thing is, we’ll celebrate it again the next day, and the next, and the next.
So, happy altValentine’s Day. Make it every day.