Why I Hate Valentine's Day

This weekend, roughly eighty seven percent of the people I know will be exchanging absurdly expensive velvet boxes of candy, annoying stuffed members of the animal kingdom, and ridiculous displays of foliage all while making me want to vomit. all. day.

No, really. It’s not that big of a deal.

It’s fine that the only flowers I have ever received on National Schmoopsie Poo Day were from the boyfriend who ended up dumping me as I was getting in the car to leave for college and my father when I was in my twenties.

It doesn't even matter that I have to buy myself those absurdly expensive velvet boxes of candy.

I really don’t even care that I have had a super sexy little hot pink teddy in the back of my closet for the past five years with no one to wear it for.

And I don’t even like jewelry, anyway.

(Me? Bitter? Never.)

Because my hatred of Valentine's Day does not stem from always being single on February 14th. Oh no, no, no. Not this girl. No-sir-ee-bobby! I can't believe I just typed that.

Back when I was a wee tike in grade school, if we were going to bring Valentines for someone we had to bring one for everyone in the class. We even made card receptacles out of paper bags and construction paper during class for this shenanigan of a holiday.

I know what you are thinking. And, no, I did not get shafted on my Valentines like Gretchen Weiners. My pain and suffering runs far deeper than that.

You see, when I was in the fourth grade I had a huge crush on a boy. Let's call him Mr. Meanie Pants. Because I'm mature like that.

I boldly decided to ask Mr. Meanie Pants to be my Valentine. And at the tender age of nine, I had devised a very discrete and devious way of doing so without the embarrassment of the whole class knowing about my crush.

I wrote him a note that I felt was so poetic and heartfelt I almost didn't give it to him. It read:

Clever, huh?

I slipped the note into his Valentine before I popped it into his scarcely decorated Valentine bag.

Now all I had to do was wait... and I didn't have to wait long.

Mr. Meanie pants did not circle yes. He didn't circle no. Hell, he didn't even just ignore it and pretend I never gave it to him to begin with.

Rather, he felt it was necessary to laugh boisterously about the note. Then he read it to his band of hoodlum friends. After they got a good snort and chuckle out of it, the other twelve ten-year-olds in the class wanted to know what was so funny.

He then announced to the entire class that he, Mr. Meanie Pants, would, in fact, NEVER be my Valentine. After his proclamation, he proceeded to savagely rip my note apart and throw it on the ground.

Who has two thumbs and despises Singles Awareness Day?

This fucking girl.

(I have just realized that the fourth grade was quite possibly the most mortifying and traumatic year of my life.)