Last week, I told myself that I wouldn’t write about Valentine’s Day. There is just too much to be said about this event to fit into my 800-word limit; and besides, most of it has already been said.
A week later, I realized I could not resist. I excuse this atrocity with two reasons. First, I am always late on the boat, so why should writing a week-late Valentine’s spiel deter me? Second and even better, this time I am not railing on about how consumerism sucks, so there is little of my dictatorial yowling you have to suffer.
Rather, it is a small and peculiar thought I have to share. Two days before Valentine’s, I began thinking about the event quite a bit. While I would like to think of myself as a bitter and vaguely shriveled isolationist, disillusioned by all romance, I actually spend many a cold evening in Paris wrapped up in fluffy blankets, getting teary and snot-nosed at clips of “Love Actually.”
It is now, as my diehard, soppy and traditional romantic side exposes itself to the nude, that I would really like to talk about love. Yes, I am in fact hearing your gags of disgust from across a continent and the Atlantic. Over the dulcet tones of your vomiting, however, I would really like you to lend me an ear, because I have not just been thinking about a Disney prince and princess love. Rather, I have been thinking about love as the basis of how people, in relationships or not, treat one another.
Valentine’s Day is usually an event with lots of bling. That day last year, I looked out of my window at some absurd hour of the morning, awoken by Stanford’s Mariachi band trooping into the front courtyard, strumming and belting out a series of fancy songs. The couple by the front door stood awkwardly around as they played, the girlfriend looking a bit like she was wilting.
“Oh my God,” I saw her mouthing, looking like she was about to die.
It was probably from love. The whole thing was very sweet and even ended with a bit of snogging, of which I always approve. But holidays like this always make me wonder if the bling manages to eclipse the small, little things that people can do for one another – things that involve more than just serenades and men in costumes. The smallest things, like sending thank you e-mails, opening a door, inviting somebody out to lunch and letting them know that their company is wanted, are all such important things that can really make a person’s day.
Keep in mind that you are talking to a girl who needs constant excitement, a fact that probably explains my bias against Valentine’s. Rather than waiting a year for a day of solid surprise, where crazy restaurant-going, gift-wrapped packages and pretzel-shaped Kama Sutra techniques abound, I would rather little things happen all the time. I try to do that in all my relationships, be it with my friends, family or particularly sexy men. I think the littlest things are important, and in my defensive, mother fox way, I almost resent Valentine’s for eclipsing the smaller moments of effort.
To prove a point, I made a note whenever something made me happy this week, and frequently, my daily pick-me-ups were not all that grandiose. From requests to Skype with me to being named somebody’s official Love Advisor, from being affectionately called a “picky cat” to receiving a brief note from someone I had not heard from in a while…they were all fleeting, but great in net endearment.
It’s so much easier to remember the gigantic shows of love, but I resist it, perhaps to please my reluctant isolationist, buried deep in a corner of my personality. And though sometimes it gets difficult keeping up a constant love of people, I still keep doing it, however much it is trying sometimes to see the appreciation of such an effort. Am I masochistic? Probably. Am I irrationally stubborn? Most definitely.
But all I can say to that is, every day should be Valentine’s Day!
Not really, but I hope you get what I mean. I said that mainly to hear more clearly some trans-Atlantic puking.
Do you value small loves? Is Sam just crazy? Tell her she is not at [email protected].