The Me in Me

In honour (or maybe a better term would be "begrudging acknowledgment") of St. Valentine's Day this week, I am going to write a series of love letters.

But first, a tangent:

Perhaps people may be wondering why I don't seem to care much for St. Valentine's Day. "What has she got to whine about? She's newly married and brimming with bliss. This should be her best St. Valentine's Day ever." Yes. It should. But. I still cringe when I think back to the fifth grade when I had to give everyone a Scooby Doo valentine, even Evelyn who brought her mom to the "Talk About our Bodies" day at school [and "talk about our bodies" they did {I've hated "the awkward" for as long as I can remember}]. Of course there were the insecurities that maybe I wouldn't get valentines from everyone, which would be the ultimate disgrace, since it would mean the other kids would be going out of their way to snub me. And then there was the sting of disappointment when, really, none of those valentines were at all juicy or exciting. No budding romances to be had.

Then in junior high and high school, I suffered through the oh-so-common indignities of not receiving any Cuddle Bugs or Cootie Cuties or whatever it was that, like, the Pom & Cheer club totally sold for, like, only a dollar, right? Y'know? Pom & Cheer girls got out of homeroom to deliver these secret admirer valentines. I remember Jazlee and Lorna and Rachel and the gang would always get gaggles of goodies, whereas I really...didn't. It was fine, though, because I was raised by clever parents who taught me that literacy was a Great and Natural Escape. So I wrote poems--bitter diatribes for me and my fellow "slighted" girls. Bitterness works wonders; it heals all wounds. I really believe that.

If Lindsey would ever get her act together and clean out the shed and find for me "Ode to St. Valentine's Day," I would gladly post it here for all to read. It was a real masterpiece. I think it started out:

Pain, misery, squalor and muck,
All of these qualities prove that boys suck.

Or something. Later on, it seemed that no matter how many dates I accepted or boys I kissed, I always ended up "between relationships" on the 14th of February. Which is no fun at all, for a young adult who otherwise dated often enough. The more thought I gave it, the more it bothered me that the world would have the nerve to announce a holiday in honour of love. Why was it necessary to give flowers on a holiday? Being the exact same thing all the lovers worldwide are doing, I soon came to think of the tradition as cliché, blasé, and a variety of other chic-sounding French words. And two years ago, four months after meeting Kyle, we got into one of the biggest fights of our relationship of St. Valentine's Day, because of my forward-thinking ideas and notions. It was wretched.

This year, though, I am married {weird}. High on love and drowning in all my newlywed bliss, right? It should be the best St. Valentine's Day of my life. But the me in me won't get my hopes up. I'm almost more married to the bitterness than I am to Poor Kyle--let's face it: I've known it longer and more intimately.

So that's it. All the gory details of why I struggle with the holiday that we all know and...love?

In the end, it wasn't a tangent at all, but my entire post.