Feeling: gripey
Listening to: Paula Cole - Throwing Stones
Reading/Watching: Frasier, Season 1

I have become downright reluctant to recognize Valentine's Day in any way.

It's a stupid holiday, it attacks you with red and pink, and it is almost as bad as Christmas in terms of "Eat this! It may be 3,500 calories but it's a HOLIDAY!"

Plus, after three previous Valentine's Days full of love and snuggliness and the pressure to outdo each of those before, I would rather just lie low and have a good evening at home. (I think it's tougher when Valentine's Day is actually your anniversary as well, because it carries double Romantic Duty.)

You know what the best day of our honeymoon was? The day we stayed in the hotel, slept late, did married-people things, and didn't put on clothes until seven p.m. when we wanted to get dinner, which was from a drive-thru steak place (giant warning sign there), then rented a movie so we could, oh yeah, go back to cuddling in bed.

It didn't involve spending big bucks on food, flowers, or fancy gifts, it didn't have a shred of obligatory affection, and it didn't require extensive planning. I want a Valentine's Day like that. One without the pressure of perfection or one-upmanship.

Besides, every expensive restaurant or activity that we have mentally bookmarked for a Special Occasion is guaranteed to be an absolute zoo. (Like the Melting Pot, which offered to seat us at the bar at 8:30, and informed us of their mandatory Valentine's Day Special Dinner, which is $130 per person. No, thank you.)

It all makes me wonder why humanity got into the cycle of feeling like we have to contantly improve on a good thing. Because love? Is good. But obviously not good enough, until you drench it in pink, sprinkle it with diamonds, dip it in chocolate, and sell it for the price of a small European sports car.

Comments? 0 so far...
Not a Diaryland member? Sign the Guestbook.