I'm So Over(Doing) It: Valentine's Day Then and Now

When I was in high school our Student Council had an annual fundraiser selling little netted bags of Hershey's Kisses for $1.

The week before Valentine's Day students would line up in the lobby to place an order for the object of their affection.

One week later members of the Student Council would travel classroom to classroom showering chocolate popularity upon lucky boys and girls.

I was never one of those lucky boys and girls.

I seem to recall the bags having some sort of clever name, but in my mind they were called, “Blinding Disappointment That No One Bought You Candy Now Go Home and Cry Yourself to Sleep. Again.”

Shocking, I know, given how normal and well-adjusted I was.

Though I felt differently at the time, I'm sure I wasn't the only one leaving school broken-hearted that day. The Student Council could have easily doubled their profits if they stood out by the after-school bus line selling buckets of Haagen-Dazs and Sarah McLachlin CDs.

Once I got to college it wasn't much better. Every February 14th our sorority house was abuzz with dozens of girls readying themselves to hit the town with their boyfriends for a fancy catfish dinner. (That's not a euphemism – I went to college in southern Missouri. There were a lot of hillbilly restaurants and everyone was on a budget).

Obviously showing your face in public alone on this night solidified you as a loser; my fellow single lady friends and I would take refuge under cover of darkness in a designated dorm room, eat buckets of Haagen-Dazs, listen to Sarah McLachlin CDs and discuss things like how stupid it was to have a serious boyfriend in college and never ending sadness.

Finally... FINALLY my senior year I had a boyfriend. I sunk my claws deep into his haunches and held on for dear life until Valentine's Day came and I got the fancy catfish dinner I had coming to me.

Suffice it to say the holiday left something to be desired. A three-hour wait (the only reservations at a hillbilly restaurant are those you have when you notice there's a dog in the kitchen while the waiter is taking your order) combined with way overpriced yet surprisingly crappy food left me wondering what all the fuss was about.

How was this better than eating ice cream with my girlfriends again?

I was immediately over it. Not that I don't appreciate the meaning behind the day; every time I've been in a relationship since then I look forward to doing a little something out of the ordinary to celebrate. Like springing for a Red Box or flossing. Nothing fancy like a catfish dinner out, though.

Nope. Ever since college, Valentine's Day has been a laid back, low key holiday for this girl and her husband, and it seems like most people agree that it's way overblown and commercial. Only suckers play into such a Hallmark holiday.

Then Pinterest was invented and my kids started preschool. In that order.

Suddenly Valentine's Day became a thing again and, like Pinterest has a funny way of doing, I feel like everyone in the world is superior.

Knowing the preschool Valentines my kids handed out were going to make their way home with their friends and eventually to their parents, and being one to commonly overcompensate my parental shortcomings with going overboard on things that don't matter, I spent hours researching best homemade Valentine.

I had to win at Valentine's Day. Bleary eyed, hypnotized by the colorful kaleidoscope of do-it-yourself, I'm-overcompensating-for something-crafty-and-adorable cards, I scrolled and scrolled until I reached the end of Pinterest.

“It will be fun!” I said. “The kids will enjoy it and it will be something we can do together!” I said.

Here's where I landed:

Cute, right? Cute little hands, cute little faces.

Cute until you have to make 29 of those stupid, cute little horrible, horrible cards. For those of you like me with a public school education – that's 87 cute little hands and 87 cute little faces to cut out.

I set up a little activity center/child labor sweat shop on my dining room table. My kids lost interest immediately and ran away, leaving only this behind as evidence they were there:

By the time I was finished !THREE DAYS LATER! my hands looked like a gnarly, knotted mess of driftwood and I had a significant hunchback.

I sent my daughters to school on Valentine's Day confident I had packed their preschool bags chock-full of artistic genius and unparallelled parental love and dedication. They returned with a bag full of store bought, non-Pinterest cards with candy Scotch-taped to the back.

I sat down at the kitchen table and used my bionic hand to tear a piece of chocolate off my daughter's Valentine when she wasn't looking.

“Well... fiddlesticks,” I thought to myself. As in my previous life, I found myself competing in a Valentine's Day race that I didn't really want to enter but felt like everyone else was a part of.

The only difference now is that I have a beautiful family, my hair no longer represents a phallic symbol and I can legally drink wine. Which, really – in the grand scheme of things – are the only things that matter anyway.