Like you, my opinion of Valentine’s Day has been sculpted by previous experiences. My disclaimer: though at times I may seem bitter and jaded, I can be excruciatingly romantic, given the right circumstances. Even if I clam up at a compliment or gag at a nauseatingly sweet comment or gesture, on the inside-I’m total mush.

When I was growing up, my family didn’t celebrate any pagan holidays (which is pretty much all of them) because of their religious beliefs. Like any sort of textbook study in reverse psychology, this only caused me to be more fascinated. I understood all the history and meaning behind the holiday traditions and celebrations, and I didn’t care how ungodly it was: those pagans sure knew how to have FUN!

Elementary school was the best. This was a time when sheer glee was the default mental state preceding any holiday, before it was replaced with things like expectations, guilt, and stress. Like every other kid, I would gladly celebrate any break in the monotony of typical school-work. There was the anticipated afternoon party, when everyone handed out their generic, manufactured, mini-cards filled with predetermined affection and then there were treats, as far as the eye could see. I was the only kid in the class sneaking cinnamon hearts and delicately placing them on my tongue, as to not get any telling red stains on my fingertips. Those contraband party goodies- sugar never tasted so sweet.

I was shyly appreciative getting cards from the other kids. Even though they knew I didn’t celebrate, and even though they knew I had nothing for them in return, they awkwardly tried to include me. I would admire and re-read my bagful of little cards on my bus ride home, studying them long enough I could commit them to memory because I knew as soon as I walked in the door my special little cards would be tossed in trash. No explanation required; it was a foregone conclusion.

Since the first grade, my dating life has been referred to by some of my closest friends as “dodging bullets”. I haven’t made too many great choices in my life, when it comes to men. I’m usually too idealistic for my own good. I read too many classics and watched too many period films. When I was in love, it was always forever, and when I wasn’t, it was never. I’ve since learned the more subtle shades of grey.

In fifth grade, I had sort of paired up with this kid, Ian. We were “going out,” even though “going out” never meant actually going anywhere. Obviously, I wasn’t allowed to “go out”. Ian was pretty cute and seemed like an ordinary, genuinely nice boy. At the time, we were both sitting on the fringes of being popular. Every girl had a crush on the most popular boy, Don, but I figured Ian was more realistic. Plus, I already had him. Don had barely said five words to me all year.

February 14, 1985, on the playground, there was a bunch of commotion and a pack of girls breathlessly ran up to me sputtering and shrieking, “Oh my God!! Don wants to go out with you!!!” Needless to say, I was shocked. My loyalty and disappointment equally jabbed in me in the throat, “But I’m going out with Ian.”

“We already asked Ian! He said it’s OKAY!!!” Well, then, that settled it. If Ian said it was okay, I certainly didn’t need to feel bad. So I shrugged and said, “Okay,” but my nerves were burning me up, from the inside out. Just like that, in a bittersweet transaction, I had been traded away and I was now going out with the most popular boy in school. We didn’t go out, but we did sit in the hallway, on the floor together, drawing. That was pretty romantic.

With my early and inevitable inclination to all things pagan, I’ll admit, I enjoy holidays. I love having a special someone to celebrate because it gives me a chance to get my Martha on. I didn’t have the chance to enjoy that stuff while it was fun and simple in childhood. One year, when I was SO in love, I spent weeks before Valentine’s Day laboring over a beautiful handmade leather-bound book. I filled its pages with dozens of our shared emails transcribed in my flowery penmanship, the history of the holiday, complete with pen and ink drawings of Cupid, and charming quotes of children answering the simple question, “what is love?” Things like, “Love is… when you want to share your French fries.”

My painstaking, tedious project was met with (expected) awe. Then it was my turn. I was presented with a small box. Small boxes can get a gal pretty excited. However, inside this small box was the ugliest watch I had ever seen. He eagerly awaited my response as I tried not to show my disappointment. He said, “I hope you like it. As soon as I saw it, I thought of you.” I managed to squeak out, “Oh, wow. Cool. Thanks.” After mulling over the “as soon as I saw it, I thought of you” comment, I realized this guy didn’t know me at all. I’m not lazy about my affections and I’m not interested in anyone who is.

My perfect Valentine still eludes me, though 1985 was pretty close. I like eating takeout or preparing a nice meal at home. I like roses, but prefer tulips. I like candles, sexy music and a good bottle of wine. I like homemade cards and heartfelt, thoughtful gifts. I like love and love making fond memories. One of my most amusing Valentines, thus far, involved my to-die-for Flourless Chocolate Cake and a romp that ended in the utter destruction of my antique bed. It wasn’t love, but it was mutual like and fun, and there is something to be said for a naked man, gentleman enough to try and fix the bed.

What is your most memorable Valentine?

Rebekah Boisvert

Executive Procrastinator/Ambassador of Creativity

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