I’ve never shared Ebenezer Scrooge’s contempt for Christmas. The bustle of the holiday season, the bright lights and the attitude of goodwill toward men affected by even the most avowed secularist all appeal to me. It would never occur to me to extinguish that glow of seasonal joy that is shared by so many.
Valentine’s Day? Now that’s another story. The idea of a cherubic, fashion-challenged and/or incontinent archer firing off darts at various and sundry passersby in an effort to stir up romance is preposterous and slightly creepy. If a human being were playing Cupid in this manner, they’d be branded a stalker.
It’s also something of a mystery how a Roman Catholic martyr became associated with a holiday that’s all about love. The Legenda Aurea of Jacobus de Voragine simply says that St. Valentine was beheaded after rejecting an imperial command to deny Christ.
Because, you know, nothing says romance like the image of a decapitated clergyman.
Valentine’s Day is also the date when seven Chicago men were executed by gangsters in 1929. Again, not much of a romantic image, although the St Valentine’s Day Massacre has always been the perfect metaphor for my love life.
Either it’s bad luck or a general cluelessness regarding affairs of the heart, but I really don’t date well. Two quick examples: One time I rode a carnival ride with someone I was trying to impress when I demonstrated the Technicolor yawn. Trust me, this is no foundation for a lasting relationship. Another time, on another date with another woman, the blind date was interrupted a Ford LTD struck the side of the car she was driving.
She must have blamed me because she refused to have anything to do with me after that.
I’ve been interested in cinema since I was a little kid, but two movie dates convinced me that I had to learn more about films before entering the theater. For the record: Thelma and Louise and The Accused? Worst. Date movies. Ever.
Some years I’ve been able to take some solace in the idea that other people struggle with Valentine’s Day as much as I do. Like the men shopping at Wal-Mart in the wee hours of February 15, trying to find discounted gifts for their significant other.
I’m no expert on relationships, and even I know that no one earns points with tardy Valentine’s gifts.
It’s days like this when the love songs on the radio continually remind me how unsuccessful I’ve been in cultivating relationships. Even though the relationships those songs depict are idealized, I can’t help feeling a pang for opportunities lost by circumstances or my own fear of rejection. At fortysomething, I find myself reflecting on John Wayne’s rueful comment. By the time he was a big enough star to get the girl at the end of the movie, he was so old that he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do with her.
I want something better than the couple who meets cute and ends up happy – at least until the end credits scroll down across the screen. I want a relationship that is for real.
But Valentine’s Day isn’t about celebrating enduring relationships. It’s about exchanging gifts that contain carats, calories or chlorophyll.
Bah, humbug.