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:

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