Sainthoods and holidays

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, a holiday that conjures up visions of red and pink crinkly paper wrapped around boxes of chocolate, cellophane-encased stems of cost-hiked flowers, and stuffed animals with sewn on hearts. It is also the day most elementary students feel the first pangs of crushes or, more likely, suffer through reading cootie-laden notes with awful-tasting heart-shaped candies taped - or worse, glued - to the construction paper missives. When I was a kid, it became a competition to see who would get the most Valentines, and who could purchase the most trendy cards. Inevitably, a name was misspelled. Inevitably, someone's feelings got hurt. Inevitably, the experience of the day dropped well short of the expectations. 

Later in my life, say through high school, I grew to detest the day and all it stood for. After all, rumor has it that the holiday exists because one religion didn't like the traditions of another, and so usurped the Ides of February in the name of sainthood. We didn't like the whole dip-the-hide-in-blood-and-parade-through-town experience or the throw-all-the-ladies'-names-in-the-pot-and-draw-the-year's-mate thing, so we decided to come up with something completely different, something more aligned with the idea of romance. The most "romantic" story of St. Valentine for me, and one that was not all that romantic when I thought about it, was of a priest who secretly married couples because the hegemonic powers decided bachelors made better soldiers than men with families. What says romance better than secret marriages and martyrdom?

As a bachelor, my ire deepened, as I saw the materialism of the day flourish. One could not simply profess one's love for another. One must purchase goods to substantiate the profession. I had not only to find someone who was receptive to my professions of "like" (love was pretty much out of the picture), but I also had to buy something - a bunch of dying flowers, some unhealthy sweets, a dinner that I did not make. And then, the day passed and it was February 15th and everything was back to normal. While my literary mind conjured the fairytale stories of a magical Valentine's Day escapade that blossomed into something really special and lasted for the rest of my life, I'd soon raise my eyes from the paper I was writing on, and realize it just wasn't going to happen. 

Now, as an older man with graying hair and an acute sense of reality, I see that Valentine's Day, like many of the other holidays is simply a day to remind us all that we should be doing something we're not currently. Valentine's Day reminds us that romance and love and devotion are important and that we need to profess our love to those who have it. We shouldn't do this once a year, though. We should do this throughout the year, every day, in small measures and in grand gestures. Name a holiday, and I'll bet that same sentiment can apply. Now, as an older man with graying hair, I see that the love I have for my wife is not something to be represented by a candy, a cliche, and a card. It is much more important than that, and I try very hard to let her know that each day because everyday is Valentine's Day.

But my wife does like chocolate, and she likes flowers, and she likes to go out to eat. So I'll probably go shopping later today and go out to eat tomorrow evening. Thing is, I'll do it again sometime later in the near future because, well, because my wife likes chocolate and she like flowers and she likes to go out to eat.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.