Thoughts on he Month of Lurv, with a dash of omphaloskepsis.

"Flowers flying cross the room
Vases smashed against the floor
Said 'I'd rather be alone
Take your chocolates and go home'"
-DBT

What does getting dumped, falling down a flight of stairs, being in the hospital, and nearly getting arrested all have in common? They all happened on Valentine's day. So, needless to say I've always been a little wary of the holiday above and beyond the usual loneliness that can accompany it.

I usually discourage the Valentine's day presents, from gentlemen callers or otherwise, as I'd rather get a gift of the just-because variety than because the giver feels obligated. The Valentine's Day of my sophomore year of college, however, was one of the more memorable of 'love oriented' gifts I'd ever received. After thoroughly advertising my distaste for the day to anyone in earshot, I came home to find a hunting knife on my bed with a note, written in red paint on a torn piece of cardboard, that read: "V-day can be brutal. Arm yourself." Maybe it's the McCue in me, but that's my kind of romance.

But for those stuck on what to get that certain someone for Valentine's day, and those that end up with a gift that elicits a lack luster response, you've only Chaucer to blame. Although St. Valentine (all eleven of them) date back to over 200 AD, the first association of V-Day as a day for lovers wasn't made until 1382, when our buddy Chaucer made mention of the exchange of love notes in his poem Parlement of Foules. Asshole.

The best story I'd ever heard of St. Valentine was that he was a scorned man who cut out his own heart and then gifted it to his lover. Unfortunately I can't find any evidence of this story, and I think I might have made it up. Regardless, I like it better than the current story of the jailed priest who continued to marry couples in secret. Because what's a better way to say I Love You than with cold cold spite.

But in moderate seriousness, I like to consider myself an a-typical gal with typical sensibilities, and as much as that statement might reek with pomposity to some, it holds true to my innate girly desires for The Ring, The Wedding and the Happy Ever After. One year, probably around the age of six, my mom substituted my birthday cake for a wedding cake, which has staved off any serious premature itchings to get my Big Day, but maybe not so much that innate desire to find that buddy you couple up with on the playground. But despite that want, I have a bit of an allergy to the L word. Never been good at saying it, never been good at receiving it. I know my fear of the L word comes from the anticipated danger that it will be taken back. Takesies Backsies, if you will. But after saying those three little words the last thing I assume most boys want to hear is a puzzled and inquisitive "Fo' Reals?" So perhaps the aversion comes from the knowledge of my own tendency to second guess, and not the implication of the word at all, and what I'm looking for is just someone to answer me back: "Psh. Fo' Reals, girl."