You don’t bring me flowers anymore

I really hate Valentine’s Day. It’s not Valentine’s Day’s fault. (And, no, it’s not because I’m single.) I don’t even like V-Day when I happen to be in a relationship during it. It’s because I’m really frakking tired of the Love Industrial Complex dictating to me how I should feel or celebrate.

You can’t go out to eat anywhere on the weekend closest to V-Day. It’s some rule that couples must celebrate their love in a restaurant, which means that a normal person can’t so much as go to Burger King without having to wait for a table behind a dozen lovey-dovey duos.

(I never got that, by the way. “Hey, it’s the Hallmark-approved Day of Love. Sure, we could stay home and spend 24 hours straight-up naked, but instead let’s go stand in the lobby of Chile’s for two hours. That’s sooooooooo romantic.”)

I hard-core resent Valentine’s Day. I hate hearing people say that they’re not doing anything special because they’re single. I hate seeing coupled-up friends defend their low-key V-Day because it didn’t look like a Kay Jewelers commercial. I hate feeling like this one day *has* to be this commercially specified something or it doesn’t count.

I tried to play the V-Day game during my first serious relationship, when the then-BF and I did the whole waiting-an-hour-for-a-table thing and I planned this whole surprise ice-skating date at the Coliseum annex, only to find out that the Coliseum had rescheduled a high school basketball game for that night, so we ended up back at his house watching “Romper Stomper,” which, curiously, no one else was insane enough to check out from Blockbuster that night. That might actually be my favorite Valentine’s Day ever. (What? I really like Russell Crowe.)

The thing is, that was not the Most Romantic Moment Ever ™ from that relationship. There was beating our friends at after-hours office hide and seek, or seeing a deer walk 20 feet in front of us at a park, or me finding a note on my car one random morning. In other relationships, I remember feeling him take my hand on a long car ride when he thought I was asleep, or him shyly giving me a Robert Shaw movie that I didn’t yet own, or discovering that we both knew all the words to “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore.”

Isn’t getting one of those lovey special only-we-know things on, say, a Tuesday in May or a Saturday in November so much more awesome? Maybe that’s just me. I’d rather get, and give, something because it’s genuine than because it’s the societally approved day on the calendar.

At my grandmother’s funeral last month, my uncle didn’t talk about valentines. He talked about knowing that his mom never missed one of his basketball games. There are things that are sweet and nice, and there are things that are infinitely more important.

So, from now on, whether I’m celebrating with a lucky guy or not, I’m going to focus on the things that I love about myself and the people around me – not just on Feb. 14, but every day.

I love exchanging kid-style valentines with my friends and co-workers now that we’re adults. It’s fun. I love grabbing dinner with my girlfriends. I love car rides on sunny days with all the windows down and the music all the way up. I love playing with my friends’ kids. I love hearing my nephew play the piano. I’m freaked out by all-you-can-eat buffets, but that’s something I dig about myself, so it counts.

Still don’t care for Mondays, though. Feb. 14 or otherwise.