Does age affect the way we see Valentine’s Day?

Broken heart

Be my valentine!
I heart you!
Be mine!
I love you!

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been bombarded greeted by these declarations long before Christmas was over. Establishments, all the way from bookstores to bakeries, have been more than happy to promote the countdown to the most awaited (or dreaded) holiday of the year.

But before any V-day lovers get their knickers in a bunch, know this will not be a rant on the evils doings of Cupid and his arrows. Nor will it be a history lesson on Saint Valentine and his role in this capitalistic venture upcoming holiday.

Rather, this will be a walk down memory lane (it’s been too long since I did one of those) to explore my attitudes and reactions to the “friendship/love” day.

And so it begins…

Age 6
I remember coming home with a self made, decorated envelope stuffed with “valentines.” Cards illustrated with fat cats and the words “You’re Puurfect, Valentine” made me giggle. The fact that so many people wanted me to be their valentine made me feel special and filled me with joy.

Age 10
Valentine cards, some of them still unopened, filled my backpack. Rushing to my room so I could continue reading “Anne of Green Gables,” I spied Nana, standing regally in the middle of the hallway, a stern look on her face. “Bella, unopened Valentine cards show a lack of respect and appreciation to your classmates. March your behind to the kitchen, pour yourself a glass of milk, and let’s read those cards!” I knew better than to protest.

Age 12
At this age, I had discovered that crafting was not only fun, but also a way to bond with friends. Since we considered ourselves too “big” to hand out valentines, we spent this day making beautiful cards out of glossy paper, lace, and glitter. The recipients? Only our very best friends (known nowadays as “besties,” “bae,” or “BFFs.”)

Age 14
Valentine cards were replaced with “candy grams.” For a mere fifty cents (which wasn’t so mere at the time), you could send friends a lollipop in the shape of a heart, accompanied by a message. Many used this method to send anonymous messages to secret crushes. The amount of candy grams received determined a person’s popularity and sadly, also had the power to undermine the self confidence and self esteem of many. At the end of the day, it was easy to see who was well liked and who was “invisible.”

Age 17
Boys had “upped” their game and arrived at school bearing gifts of flowers and heart shaped chocolate boxes. This was also the time when I received a poem from a young man named Eddie, in which he professed his undying love. I wish I could tell you what it said, but I barely skimmed the contents before shoving it into my pocket. Unfortunately, I forgot all about it and it was destroyed when Nana threw my pants in the wash. When Eddie learned of his poem’s demise (yes, I was stupid enough to tell him), he looked at me with contempt and said, “Bella, may your callous disregard for someone else’s feelings result in you never being loved. Really loved. Like I loved you but no longer do.” (Spoken like a true poet.) Eddie, if you’re reading this, please know your hex worked and to this day, I still believe love is an illusion.

Age 20
This Valentine’s Day brought love (and horror) into my life in the form of a phone call. Hearing the words, “I love you. Will you marry me?” induced a panic attack that lasted for days. (Did I mention it was my first proposal and came from an ex boyfriend I hadn’t seen in two years?)

Age 24
Second marriage proposal. This time my reaction was more positive. Although in hindsight, I would have been better served reacting the same way I had to proposal #1.

Early 30’s
Valentine’s Day was no longer a one on one affair. As a single mother, I went from recipient to delegated card buyer, to crafts expert, to writer of cards. I was also a shoulder to cry on when the Daughter didn’t receive a valentine from “the one” and the Son got too many “stupid girly cards” and none that featured Pokemon.

Age 35
Third marriage proposal. This one came from Christopher, one of my pre kindergarten students who, dressed in a long sleeved white shirt and black shorts, dropped down to one knee, and asked for my hand in marriage. To this day, the beautiful little plastic ring he offered me is one of my most valuable possessions.

Late 30’s
Valentine’s Day celebrations are just a hazy memory. I’m only reminded of this holiday’s existence by phone calls from loved ones (young and idealistic family members), eager to scream, “Happy Valentine’s Day!” Oh, and by the low hanging “Be Mine” sign at the supermarket that hit me on the head and almost gave me a concussion.

Early 40’s
Valentine’s Day? Really? Are they still celebrating that?
Note to self: Include a reminder on Google calendar for February 15. Must beat to the punch other overworked, disillusioned, and exhausted women over the age of 40 for 50% off Valentine’s Day chocolates. (Remember to wear comfortable shoes since physical altercations are very much a possibility).

Oh, chocolate.
You have the power to remind me why I’m still grateful for this holiday. Thank you for that!

Do you still celebrate Valentine’s Day?

Note: Names have been changed to protect the innocent

Who’s turn is it?

He looked at me.
I started to cuss.
Dog poop sitting between the two of us.

It’s not fair.
When is life fair?
Just pick it up and show me you care.

Picking up poop
Shows you I care?
So does ignoring you’re losing your hair.

Life is crazy
Or maybe we are
You whine the song and I’ll play the guitar.

Vintage Saturday

cc licensed flickr photo shared by DBR9007

Can every day be a good day?

I’ve always considered myself to have pretty high self esteem. Of course there are those “bad hair days”, and those “fugly days” and the worse of the lot, those “hippo days”. Fortunately, those days are far and few between.

However, why isn’t it a surprise that just when you’re feeling on top of the world something happens to kick you back to one of the aforementioned statuses?

That “something” would happen to be finding yourself in line sandwiched between Ms. Vogue and Ms. Elle. Flowing tresses completely absent of split ends, perfectly manicured and pedicured feet, makeup fit for any Hollywood star and legs that don’t stop.

Any shred of self-esteem you may have had before you got in line has shamefully exited the building. The only thing you’re left with is a very severe inner critic who seems hell bent on reminding you that somewhere in a village an oompa loompa has gone missing.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the cashier’s glasses and you see flyaways, frizz and, is that a feather?

You look down at your fingernails and wonder where they have gone.

Sadly, you’re not brave enough to look down at your feet because you can’t even remember the last time a pumice stone came within a ten-mile radius.

And the makeup? Does pinching your cheeks for a minute and biting your lips before you came into the store count?

You pay for your items and do the walk of shame to the car.

As you sit at the driver’s seat, you wonder if there is a pygmy village somewhere in Central Africa that would welcome you with open arms.

In the meantime, Ms. Vogue and Ms. Elle are making their way to the parking lot. You glance at them in their perfect outfits, with their perfect hair, drinking their perfect Skinny Vanilla Lattes and that’s when you see it.

You quickly put your keys in your ignition, glance at your rear view mirror to make sure it’s clear, put your car in reverse and wait. They’re almost where you want them.

You put your car in drive as they get closer. Just a few more steps.

You take your foot off the brake and head for it.

It’s perfect and it’s waiting. Waiting, just waiting. The minute they walk next to it, you floor it.

Dirty water spurts everywhere. Screams are heard. Bags are dropped. Cursing ensues.

As you drive off, you once again look in the mirror and witness the macabre scene.

Ms. Elle and Ms. Vogue giving you the finger as they run after your vehicle.

No more flowing locks of hair. No more perfect makeup. No more gorgeous outfits.

Just two crazed looking women running behind your car drenched in muddy water.

Because while Mother Nature doesn’t always give us looks to die for, now and then she bequeaths us with the perfect puddle.