One of the many things I love about my wife is that she doesn’t make me do anything for Valentine’s Day. Bloody Valentine’s. It brings nothing but resentment and misery. It makes single people feel left out and lonely and turns happy couples against each other. True, some women might feel a little gratified if their man buys them expensive flowers — particularly if the florist delivers to her office so that others can see just how special she is. She might also enjoy being taken out for an expensive meal at a restaurant full of other couples making each other feel special on this special day.
‘Darling, I had to book four months in advance coz they get so busy.’
‘Darling, I can see!’
We all know such thrills are fleeting and vain. They only lead to bitterness if they are not bettered each year, on the next 14 February, in perpetuity. People who take these occasions seriously should not be taken seriously.
Do you think me a curmudgeon? I don’t think I am, necessarily, and I don’t think my wife secretly pines for some over-the-top romantic gesture because the supermarkets and the television tell her that’s what should happen.
It feels like a cliché to say that Valentine’s is infantile or materialistic. But what else should we call it? Any semblance of romance or real sweetness is wiped out each year amid a consumerist blizzard.
In my inbox I can see an email: ‘Most Luxurious Valentine’s Gift: Turn the lights down at W South Beach’. It’s an advertisement for an ‘exclusive three-night package’ holiday in Miami, including ‘helicopter transportation, a Ferrari car loaner, seaplane tour, private yacht excursion, penthouse accommodations, and aphrodisiac-inspired in-room dining with a menu curated by The Dutch’s Chef Andrew Carmellini’.
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