“You won’t believe in Me, but you would fancy leprechauns or ground hogs /
No thank you, Easter Bunny.”
? Andre ‘Ice Cold’ 3000
Tomorrow is St. Valentine’s and there is no sense whining about it.
Complaining about the conglomerate invention of a holiday has been boorish for a long, long time. Every holiday is marketed to the hilt these days — even the made-up ones.
But good God, man, give the rest of us some credit! Do you really think we’re so stupid we don’t see the bastardization of sentiment and emotion? Are you really so cynical you believe we wouldn’t celebrate the presence of Love, Romance and Sex in the world without marketers telling us to?
Just because something is contrived doesn’t mean it’s not fun. You can buck social convention, but would it be worth it if one, settling her pillow by her head, should say, “That is not what I meant at all; that is not it, at all.”
Attacks of consumer conscious and social rebellion aside, you can’t stop the march of time. It’s still going to be Valentine’s Day. Instead of trying to run and hide, I prefer to look right into the eye of the beast, however odious. With any luck, we will be able to tame it and use it to do our own twisted biding.
Feb. 14 may be an arbitrary date, but so is every occasion. Religious holidays were plunked down on dates to combat the spread of pagan rituals. The Founding Fathers could have just as easily put things off until July 5, or Alberta Williams King could have gone into labor on Jan. 13.
I was once great friends with a girl who was formerly one of the world’s foremost adventurers. For us, every Friday the 13 was a cause for celebration. (Do you know what today is?) We would get high and run around in the woods and exacerbate situations. But I digress.
In this wretched snowy month, pink and red candies come as welcome reminders that we are still alive. Construction-paper hearts could be meant to invigorate us like blood on the snow for an artic wolf. We are, after all, libidinous creatures.
America, I know your hearts have grown cold, and that bothers me.
You see the cutest girl in all of Poli Sci 104 with some douche bag at Brats. The guy you have been shagging under casual pretenses refuses, under any circumstances, to refer to you as his girlfriend.
“We’ve been really busy,” said my friend, who sells lingerie retail. “It was awful — I helped this woman pick out an outfit and she tried it on. She was like, ‘Do you think my cat will like this?'”
What the hell is going on!? That may want you to crawl in a hole in hide, but it’s no reason to become a feline-o-phile.
“What if that happens to me?” she said. “What if I become a lonely old woman with no one to dance in lingerie for except my goldfish?”
This is a day for the bright side. Right now, somewhere out there, a heavily perfumed 15-year old girl is holding the sweaty hand of a very awkward looking 15-year old boy at the movies. Grown women working a nine-to-five are getting all lubed up just thinking of getting home to their loved ones.
And douche bag boyfriend or none, Poli Sci girl’s nubile appearance and graceful manner may just renew your faith in the youth of today. Getting all cozy-couple looking like you’re in a J.Crew catalogue may not be your particular brand of vodka, but trust that Cupid has got something in his bag of tricks for you.
Way down inside, woman, you need… love? My lingerie retailer friend just called me.
“I have a Valentine’s Day date for sure now,” she said. “Somebody hearts me. Now I have a reason for living… Oh relax, I’m just kidding!”
I know you’re trying to protect your feelings. Keep on running, player. Cupid doesn’t always flutter down with a cutesy arrow. Sometimes it’s more like a drive-by with a street sweeper.
