Call me cynical, but I am no advocate of the inflated commercialism that is Valentine's Day. Like most holidays, the intent of the inner meaning has been utterly distorted and the current culture suggests we wrap it up it a big shiny bow as an expression of our affection.

Saint Valentine or Saint Valentinus refers to two martyred saints of ancient Rome. In 496, the Pope declared that the feast of St. Valentine would be on February 14th. That's how the date was established. Suggesting the commemoration with a feast is good; we should have kept it as such. But then that old lech Geoffrey Chaucer decided to document the day as a romantic opportunity with Parlement of Foules in the 14th century. The die was cast with these very lines (in the Old English):

For this was on seynt Volantynys day
Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make*

*Old English is a bitch; the last three words mean 'chose his mate.'

So we're clear on the origins, so what happened in 600 years? I don't have the energy to track the evolution over a six century span, but I do know what probably started as an excuse for a banquet and a few sonnets of poetry has evolved into an unsentimental guilt fest, becoming the catalyst for future arguments between romantic partners.

I see it every Valentine's Day. Many of the women I work with get itchy in the first hour of work. They watch the main entrance for the delivery of copious and obscene bouquets. They gaze with envy and derision at the women who have received them. The women who have received them place them in high vantage points in order to showcase the worthiness of their mate. This goes on throughout the course of the day. The stress shows itself by 4 pm, when those not gifted, go through a slow stewing which will undoubtedly reach a boiling point when they gets home. Pity the man waiting there who has the good sense not to fork over a C note for a dozen ratty roses.

The flowers-at-work oneupmanship is but one aspect. There are expectations for gifts. And dinners. There was a thirty minute stretch today where several women congregated in my office to complain about the disappointing gifts and/or dinners they would probably be receiving from their cheap, ungrateful, unsentimental, thoughtless rat bastard husbands and/or boyfriends. Yikes. The whole romantic intent of this holiday has been besmirched and sullied by commercialism, expectation and the subsequent greed that is its accomplice.

If you're going to celebrate the holiday, maybe we should celebrate it in a fashion that captured it at its truest essence. When I was in grade school, we would make red construction paper envelopes which we would personally decorate. They were hung in egalitarian fashion along the windows and in the tenure between their hanging and Valentine's Day, other kids would tuck in little paper valentines that they'd addressed just for you. There might be one that was signed "Guess Who?" which was always thrilling, as you tried to discern who your secret 2nd grade admirer might be. I like this notion still. I might introduce it at work next year.

Celebrating Valentine's Day in the material fashion is too obvious and I think people are fatigued by its crassness. Love, of course, should be celebrated every day and happily, it is. It may be too late for this Valentine's Day, but in the next year, I say express your affection to your loved one in a poem, a song or even a red construction paper homemade valentine.


Postscript:
My friend Ruebin and his wife make this day an occasion to exchange gifts; I mean, if you're going to commit to the gifting notion anyway, it should be equitable like this. When I spoke to Ruebin today, he told me about the tasteful things he had purchased for his wife and indeed, they were thoughtful things that I knew she would appreciate. When I asked him what she had given to him, he said, "Burberry underwear." I had to know if it was plaid. "No," he replied, "Only the waistband is plaid. It's a really comfortable lightweight cotton. It holds the package in nice and snug." Now that's love.