Why I Don’t Really Care About Valentine’s Day

  “For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul.” -Judy Garland

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I know, I know, blasphemy, right?

February 14th is the day loved ones are supposed to exchange gifts and men are supposed to take women out to an expensive dinner and buy them something pretty. I’ve actually heard a woman say, “All I know is I better get jewelry this year.”

Now, before you start questioning my femininity, as a woman I am a mushy, hopeless romantic who loves love. Even more so than a lot of other women I know. I’m pretty much on the extreme end of it.

I still sent my parents a Valentine’s Day card (albeit I waited until the last minute so they won’t actually get it until the holiday is over). I still wrote my boyfriend a sappy note and have a sweet edible surprise waiting for him on the kitchen counter when he gets home from work, by which time I’ll already be off to work for the rest of the night to go serve food to other lovebirds. It’s okay that we don’t get to spend any time together today because we have the other 364 days a year to make up for it. I’m happy to ensure a lovely night for others that do get to be together.

But there is something about Valentine’s Day that always seems strange to me. It’s a day to “tell her how much she means to you,” and “tell her how special she is.” Shouldn’t we be telling each other that everyday? I don’t want my loved ones to rely on a consumer-driven Hallmark holiday to remind them to tell me these things.

I don’t want fancy jewelry, I want his heart. Not just one day a year but every day. It seems if I know I have it every day, then the significance of this one day a year in February fades away.

Today I woke up to red roses on the counter with a sweet handwritten note and I literally cried. I told you, I’m a mushy sap. And it was so beautiful and really touched my heart.

But maybe even more so because I wasn’t expecting anything. My heart is already full so the extra gesture just created overflow and I’m on cloud 9, with the excess finding its relief through my tear ducts. I love my flowers, I love my note, and the message he wrote on my Facebook wall proclaiming his love for the world to see.

But I haven’t forgotten the whole point, the heart of the matter. And that’s his.

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