Somewhere along 97 or 98, I was in the ninth grade, and was a shy, pimply-faced teenage girl who had never had a boyfriend. On Valentine’s Day, I watched in horror as EVERY single girl received cards, flowers, and most importantly, stuffed animals, besides me. One girl, in particular, received at least eight stuffed animals from five different 14-year old suitors. I was mortified.
I rode the bus home in silence, crying my eyes out all way. Every February 14, I attempted to fake ebola to get out of going to school. It didn’t work, and buckets of tears ensued.
Since that day, I’ve had it out for Mr. Cupid, or this holiday I’ve dubbed Valloween due to all of the crapola in the stores loving put out on January 2. Even when I was 18 and finally did had a boyfriend, something has always rubbed me the wrong way about mushy, red… stuff.
Fortunately, I married someone who feels the same way about the Valloween. Yea, I don’t think we’ll celebrate it this year. At least not with balloons, or jewelry, or bears, or importantly, balloons.
P.S. The guy I married has the body of Chris Pratt and the face of Chris Pine. This really isn’t relevant, I just wanted to put that somewhere, in some post.