"I'm so done with girls!" This, the proclamation of my five year old, who can't even reach the handle on the kitchen faucet, but, is decidedly over the vast majority of the female population. Fine by me, at this point, anyhow. I asked him what he was before he was done with girls, and he didn't reply...audibly. He just rolled his eyes and gave me the "please Mom, are you serious?" face. I want to reiterate - this kid is five. Apparently he was chased this morning in Sunday school, by a pretty girl in a festive dress and tights with red and white hearts peppered all over them. She supposedly tried to kiss him. He told her he can't kiss girls except his mom and girls he's married to. Consider yourself notified, girls. So, he told her he wouldn't marry her. And her heart was broken, and she went off to pursue a future in country music...and my son ran to me and made the aforementioned proclamation.
Well, it was something like that, anyway.
The day is full of Valentine expectations. As I've mentioned many times, I love expectation just about as much as I hate it. I realize that statement doesn't make much sense. I passed a couple roughly spray-painted signs offering fresh flowers on the side of the road. One was neon yellow, and said "ROSES" in huge red letters, and a lonely man sat on the back bumper of his minivan, trying to peddle those bouquets. I went to the mall and witnessed the hustle and bustle of ladies and gentlemen trying to find last-minute tokens of love and worship for their significant others. A couple gals walked into Bath and Body Works, sweating and out of breath, asking "Do you have any Valentine gift sets for MEN?!?" The store clerk looked at them with empathy and let them down easy with a soft "no." My first thought, ladies, is that your man probably didn't want anything from that store anyhow. 'Specially not a Valentine gift set.
A man I passed on my way home this afternoon deserves an honorable mention: his love for McDonald's is apparently so great, he had a full display of drink cups on his dashboard, crammed against the windshield. That's some incredible paper-cup love. Or maybe he just couldn't find a trashcan.
So why do we try so hard to make this such a mushy gushy holiday? I hunkered down at the computer to reread the stories of St. Valentine's Days in our history. I was curious, and I was stalling so I didn't have to do homework.
It certainly wasn't a warm-fuzzy day for the guys who got shot on the North Side of Chicago back in Capone's days of reign. Maybe they picked the 14th because they felt a little vomity (it's a word, in my vocabulary) over the lovey-dovey-ness of the holiday? That's my theory.
Word has it, St. Valentine was a priest who was martyred for his love of Christ. Evidently, he liked to perform marriages, in secret, so the emperor would not find out. Emperor Claudius didn't want men to marry because then they wouldn't sign up for his army. One day St. Valentine was caught for performing a marriage and jailed for it, but the prison guard's daughter took a liking to him...and visited his cell regularly. Well, the day Valentine was set to be executed, he left a little note for this girl, signed "With Love, Your Valentine." So...we all love each other especially much on this day because of a priest on death-row's affection for his jailer's daughter. Perfect. Makes wonderful sense. Well, at least to Hallmark, it does.
But who am I to knock a day to enjoy decadent desserts, unusual kindness from husbands, little girls trying desperately to kiss little boys, and, of course...the annual box of "gamble chocolates."
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