It’s an ancient Pagan fertility festival. It’s a day when the Roman’s martyred Valentinus, and it’s a day when the Christians celebrate love.
It’s hoping your big construction-paper-envelope will bulge with candy hearts and drug-store valentines. It’s hoping that last one is from him. It’s a day to compare.
It’s a day for hiding tears and a day for hiding smiles. It’s a day to feel anxiety and maybe the sweet exhale of relief.
And it’s a day to communicate without saying a word – a chance to be kind or cruel.
But mostly, it’s a day when we choose.
It’s a tool for seduction and an excuse to get laid. It’s an opportunity to say, out of all my choices, you won. It’s a chance for her to be a prize.
It’s dinner, flowers and four hours of presence to make up for a year’s worth of absence. It’s pretend connected intimacy.
And it’s a guilt trip. It’s compulsory. It’s a chance to f*ck up. It’s a chance to show up.
It’s a payday for florists and restaurants, hotels and babysitters. It’s simplified menus and churning tables. It’s 19 Billion dollars of business – an institution and a ritual.
And it’s the one night when you know, for certain, that the person you’re missing is gazing into someone else’s eyes and touching gently under the table.
And for some, it’s a time to whisper to the cold winter wind, F*ck I miss you.
It’s a hard night for disposable men and secret lovers.
And it’s proof. Proof that there’s balance in the world. Proof that for every yin there’s a yang and wherever there’s light, there’s also a shadow. Near or far.
It’s a night to be alone in a crowd with him or with her. It’s a night to eat fancy cheese. It’s a night to hear, I love you.
It’s a love letter from a man who can’t write.
And sometimes it’s the longest day of the year and sometimes the longest night of your life and those are good days and good nights for good whiskey. Or bad tequila.
It’s a night to feel her emptiness and to fill it – if only for a while.
But most of all, it’s a day about love. All of it.
After all, it’s Valentine’s Day.
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