Valentine’s is that holiday I always forget. Then, on an after-work power shop at the drugstore, foraging for emery boards or Pond’s cream, that rack of greeting cards reminds me. Oh! right. Valentine’s Day. Again.
I want to snarl at all that pink and puce, while my inner adult tells me to get over it, that there’s no need for the V-Day attitude.
And there isn’t. I’m married to a man, who, for the past 27 V-Days, has propped a card against my morning coffee mug.
So grow the heck up.
Mind you, I’m not a total Valentine’s Grinch. Here in America, I love how it’s a sort of all-age, intergenerational love fest. I love how Hallmark retails cards for Mums, Dads, grandparents, children and grandchildren. Young parents tell me that, from Kindergarten to fifth grade, their kids craft or buy a card for each little boy or girl in the classroom. If I searched long enough through that drugstore display rack, would I find a non-romantic love note for the family pet or the cable-installation girl?
The psychologists would tell me that this isn’t about forgetting, but remembering. Or it’s about memory triggers—those sights, smells, anniversaries or holidays that make us re-feel a past loss or hurt.