Click on The Literary Origins of Valentine’s Day for an interesting conversation about the origins of Valentine’s Day. Although I was a literature student in my youth, I confess that the fact that a “Saint Valentine’s Day” has been bandied about for centuries, possibly popularized by none other than good old Geoff Chaucer, slipped right by me. For as long as I can remember, it’s always been about heart-shaped candy, deep red roses, and expensive chocolate.
When I was a kid, Valentine’s Day was fun (or not, depending on whether I got any “Be Mine” cards). As an adult, I always waited for the day to be over. I prefer to give gifts, to shower love on those I love, when I feel like it, not when the consumerist forces of the market insist that I demonstrate my feelings for another. Since my husband and I have been married for almost 25 years, I can’t really remember whether any of my beaus previous to him tried to celebrate Valentine’s Day with me. But I can say with confidence that we never have.
That is, we don’t make plans to go out and have a special meal. [Tonight’s meal, as every Friday night meal, will be in the general form of beer and pizza.] We don’t buy each other chocolates. [Actually, we have a bit of chocolate every night after supper. For medicinal purposes.] We don’t buy each other flowers. [In San Francisco, there were so many flower stands, we tended to buy a bunch every week any way. Here in Tallahassee, well, a bouquet from Publix just isn’t the same.] And I don’t like diamonds (or any expensive jewelry for that matter) and my husband is grateful for that. [He did, however, give me, in a round-about way, an emerald ring, but that’s another blog post.]
So why am I even writing this post. Shouldn’t I just keep my mouth shut (or my fingers still) and let the rest of you enjoy however you choose to enjoy Valentine’s Day? No, because you all, the every one of you reading this post, is why I feel like shouting (or writing in all caps):