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Sunday, Nov 8, 2009
Forget compulsory, greeting-card romance. This year write your own love story.
Feb 14, 2003 | Like Christmas and New Year's Eve, Valentine's Day is one of those holidays that, even if you're lucky enough to spend it with someone you care for, can make you feel miserable. In all three cases, the reason is the same: Our simultaneous knowledge of the unreasonable expectations the holiday sets up and our desire to meet those expectations. Just as every New Year's Eve we're expected to party like it's 1999, every Feb. 14 we're expected to join our loved one in a day resembling a combination of douche commercial and porno movie -- romantic strolls on some picturesquely dewy deserted landscape involving lots of hand-holding and eye-gazing, topped off with hot sex.
That's why, contrary to popular belief, Valentine's Day can be as much of a downer for those of us in relationships as for those of us who are single. Part of the reason for the ordure of Valentine's Day is that it's been seized on by florists, greeting card companies and candy makers to push their products. The hearts go up in the department stores as soon as the holly and garland comes down, and a day or two after Valentine's, the goddamn Easter bunnies and eggs will arrive on schedule.
Can we, though, as thinking adults, all recognize the pervasiveness of advertising and still admit we have to hold ourselves accountable for being suckered by it? McDonald's isn't responsible for our obesity. And neither Vogue editors nor models like Adriana Lima should have to feel guilty because we're not happy with our own bodies -- any more than Michael Jordan or Cecelia Bartoli should have to feel guilty because we can't sink a three-pointer or open our mouths and have a Verdi aria come out. And though it was always a drag in grade school to realize you didn't get as many Valentines as some other kid, it's time to put that behind us, too.
It's not that I'm against the idea of a day devoted to romance; it's just that I hate the mandated feel of it. Some years back my wife and I realized that we had a much better time staying home on New Year's Eve, cooking dinner, opening a couple of bottles of champagne and watching movies than we did going out, when it seems we were expected to have the time of our lives. We had more fun (and more romance) with a bottle of Veuve Cliqout and a tape of "Tarzan and His Mate" than we did at some crowded party. Similarly, a few years ago, when a friend's husband found himself stuck in Switzerland with visa problems over Valentine's Day, we invited her over to share our dinner on the spur of the moment and we all had a great time. The next year, we invited some other friends, another couple, who were as wary of Valentine's Day as we were. Another terrific night.
A feeling of expectation even creeps into buying Valentine's presents for your sweetie. A friend of mine recently told me that on CNN Paula Zahn reported the results of a poll that showed 85 percent of men feel guilty about Valentine's Day presents. Will there be a bigger "No shit, Sherlock" media moment this year? Of course men feel guilty about Valentine's Day. There's something profoundly depressing when buying gifts becomes more a matter of checking off a list than using your imagination. A dozen red roses? Check. A box of Godiva? Check.
Those standbys might be more fun if the makers put some thought into them. Why doesn't Godiva or See's make special erotically shaped Valentine's candies? Why don't florists offer up some of those labia-like flowers in Georgia O'Keeffe's high-kitsch paintings? Wouldn't it be great to turn on the TV and see Merlen Olsen suggesting, "This Valentine's Day, why not order FTD's Georgia O'Keeffe Pussy Posies"?
Retailers are depressingly unimaginative. Been in any bookstores around Valentine's Day? Then you're sure to have seen the Valentine's table where alongside the few good ideas (usually the better sex manuals on the market), you'll find those godawful "gift" editions of love poetry or romantic affirmations that are about as romantic and erotic as undressing someone and discovering a pair of Mickey Mouse boxer shorts. How do you feel romantic giving something like that? It's like being seduced by Stuart Smalley. But what do you do if you feel that, as crummy as they are, those clichéd tokens are expected?
