Once upon a time, on a Valentine’s Day long ago, our hero scurried home from his busy job to give his wife of many years a traditional heart-shaped box of chocolates. She chose that moment to tell him that she wanted a divorce. Legend has it she still found enough love in her heart to eat the chocolates. He found enough love left in his heart to call her a bitch.
“Buy her diamonds,” say the commercials on radio, television, and the internet. Cram it, it ain’t gonna happen. I don’t care how much these commercials try to shame me into feeling cheap or unsuccessful, there ain’t gonna be any Valentine’s Diamond. Nor will there be a new Lexus in the driveway, wrapped in a big red heart-shaped ribbon.
Many women, if not most, hate Valentine’s Day. Not having a significant other, or having one that doesn’t deliver a gift, can be painful. Valentine’s Day is a cruel day of angst. Even if she has a love, and he has righteously shown up with a dozen roses year after year, eventually she will wonder why the loser hasn’t bought her a Rolex like Mr. Successful in the TV commercials.
The only guys that like Valentine’s Day are trying to get laid. Most guys hate Valentine’s Day. Roses can jump to $100 a dozen in some areas, and giving the obligatory heart of chocolates is cliché and considered cheap. When she says she doesn’t want anything, you guys best know that you had better show up with something, and you had better hope she did not see that damn Lexus commercial.
The legend says St. Valentine died by execution. I am sure it wasn’t just for womanizing. Once Valentine started giving out the gifts, he was doomed; the other men knew women would expect gifts forever. If Val had quietly jumped from bed to bed, he would have died a worn out old man. Nope, he just had to start handing out his flowery business cards. The horny little bastard got what was coming to him; that short, fat, bald, incontinent hit man named Cupid put an arrow through Valentine’s cheatin’ heart.
We now need to find out if the fool that started Sweetest Day is still around, and if he is, we need to lynch his sorry ass.
With eternal love, and all of that other saccharin rot, “Your Valentine,”
James A. Zachary Jr.