It’s Saturday, which is Super Great/Fucking Hates Day, but I’m at my parents’ house for the weekend, woefully lacking my beloved Stickies note that lists all my SG items for the week. My options are to either A) try/inevitably fail to recall from memory everything I planned to blog about; B) write a non-theme post of my thoughts; C) skip blogging altogether until tomorrow night when I return home and to my dear Stickies, as I can rarely think of anything to blog about these days aside from Super Great, which also feels a little superfluous seeing as most of the things I like (Mubarak resigning! Community! Michael Chabon!) are popular enough on their own.
So perhaps I will write about Valentine’s Day instead, and My Feelings About It. Or have I posted about this before? I don’t even know.
I spent a lot of my life hating Valentine’s Day with a passion. It was STUPID and COMMERCIAL and SUCKED FOR EVERYONE: it put pressure on couples to make a big deal of it and it made singles feel a whole host of bad things, including but not limited to bitter, pathetic, and/or desperate. And also, it shouldn’t have been a holiday in the first place, because it was invented by Greeting Card Companies to Sucker You Out of Money and ALSO, YOU SHOULD CELEBRATE LOVE EVERY DAY, NOT JUST ONCE A YEAR. (!!!1!)
I started making these statements in my early teens, when I saw myself as a sort of cross between Carrie Bradshaw-esque Woman Of The World (though I’d never seen Sex & the City) and a pre-makeover Rachael Leigh Cook in She’s All That, except minus the painting. Instead of God, I more or less worshipped the idea of true love (and subscribed to five different teenmags, incidentally). Valentine’s Day was a stupid sham because it didn’t appreciate romantic love for everything it was! Valentine’s took the noble concept of Love and dragged it through the gross, despicable, inherently watchable mud puddle of Consumerism. Teddies from Victoria’s Secret and teddy bears from Hallmark? In a word, disrespectful. Inevitably, as February 14 rolled around each year, memories would arise of that very special 7th Heaven episode in which Mary’s date drove her to a motel because he bought her Valentine’s dinner and she was like, “Um, what? No.” (What a douche that character was.) In short: Valentine’s Day was the worst ever and led to only bad things, like tacky presents and loneliness and sexual coercion. And also, on a totally unrelated note, I was a total catch! Why was I single? Oh, right, because I was twice the size of every other girl in the eighth grade.
What I’d say now is this: actually, no, Thirteen-Year-Old Heather, your body’s not the problem. Your problem is that A) you are a stereotype and B) while it’s no good for anyone to embody a stereotype, you are certainly too young to be doing so. You are, to reference another Jessica Biel character, the woman she played in last year’s godawful movie Valentine’s Day. Except for you, there is no Jamie Foxx (thank goodness); there is only a dreamy future with Lance Bass and [redacted], who your best friend will go ask to dance just when you are about to turn to her and say, “Do you think I should ask [redacted] to dance?”
But we will leave TYO Heather where she is — listening to Destiny’s Child and thinking of her butt as “jelly” — and forge ahead, as she’s stuck in the past and cannot be helped. We might as well skip over Fourteen to Nineteen as well, as the only differences in her lifestyle were an intellectual dalliance with the music of Death Cab for Cutie in place of DC and the substitution of Seth Cohen for dear sweet Lance. In my twenties, this weird thing happened: I found myself excited at the prospect of Valentine’s Day, genuinely stoked. The fact that love existed in the world, that it was even a thing, made me want to fist-pump. And the thing was, nothing had changed in my life! I had changed, apparently, when I wasn’t navelgazing. (Cue the sappy music and light-up, background water fountain.) I just walked into a store one day in January and thought something like, “Red fluffy handcuffs! And heart balloons? FUCK YEAH!” Generally red fluffy handcuffs — like machetes — remind me of my high school job, so to think anything else was pretty shocking.
Anyway. Happy Valentine’s Day, you lovely ladies and gents! May you receive as many I-wuv-you bears, candy, and celebratory trysts as you like.