The other week in the pitch room, as we discussed the articles that would fill these pages, I found myself saying, “Maybe we should write something about Valentine’s Day.” It was a compulsion—something inside me felt like a February issue would be amiss without the obligatory Valentine’s Day article. I felt a tinge of regret as the words left my mouth because now the obligatory article was in my hands.
Despite my own pitching of such an article, when asked to specify what my angle would be, I struggled to come up with something. The writers in the room tried to figure out what exactly the opinion would be. “Let’s come back around to this,” the editor-in-chief suggested.
So, I sat there, scraping my brain for an idea. I knew it had to be cynical. And there were many lines I could choose from: platonic love is underappreciated (true), the entire holiday is a capitalistic exploitation of love (also true), those who indulge are superficial (controversial), and, of course, true love does not exist in this day and age (did it ever?).
None of these arguments were my own, and by the time we came back around to me, I had nothing. There were other suggestions from the group: the opinion on which Ursinus couples were breaking up this semester, and an opinion on couples who get engaged or married in their early twenties. The former, I wouldn’t write if I were paid to do it. For the sake of being agreeable, and to end the meeting that I was probably dragging out, I said I would write about the young affianced couples. But my opinion on that subject seemed too dour for a Valentine’s Day article.
Days later, as I am trying to come up with a witty opinion on the whole Valentine’s Day debacle, I realize that I don’t have one. I sense you are doubting me; I am doubting me. When it comes to Valentine’s Day, indifference is always feigned. Maybe this is because we equate Valentine’s Day with love, and to claim indifference about the holiday would be no different than to an apathetic stance towards love.
A lack of interest in “love” is a tough claim to make, especially as a woman. The woman who does not care for love has to suffer endless looks of pity that say, you just haven’t fallen in love yet. Translation: if you, a woman, aren’t interested in a relationship with a man, you don’t know what you want.
But you were the one who proclaimed that we ought to write a piece on Valentine’s Day, I think to myself. Maybe I do have a subconscious sentiment towards Valentine’s Day swelling up in the back of my mind that needs to exude its message through writing…
For the remainder of the week leading up to Valentine’s Day, I tried to settle on an opinion. Wednesday night, I joined my friend for her film class’s screening of When Harry Met Sally. ‘Tis the season of the romcom. The two love interests (Harry and Sally) meet on several occasions. Initially, Sally finds Harry brash (and sexy) for making a pass at her and asserting his controversial belief that men and women can never be friends. Likewise, Harry finds Sally prudish (and sexy) for turning him, and his idiotic stance, down. All the essential ingredients for heterosexual love. The pair then become close friends, and by the end of the movie, they grow to love the idiosyncrasies that they once despised about the other. It was endearing to watch the reversal of the usual pattern of love, in which initial infatuation of the other transitions into a profound feeling of cringe when you hear a partner chewing loudly or wearing that ugly sweater again.
Okay, admittedly, I am falling into the cynical Valentine’s Day trap I had set out to avoid. And yet, after the movie ended, I was happy to have spent that time sitting side by side with my friend, glancing at each other during that one scene—sharing an experience without words. As we walked back to our dorms, the moonlight felt especially ripe after being absorbed in a dark theater.
Then, finally, the vexed day came, and I had a six-hour shift ahead of me. As I walked up the street to the cafe I work at, drops of water hit my head from the melting snow, a smiling stranger veered off to the side to allow me to pass by a narrow part of the sidewalk—and despite all the bitter sadness I was supposed to feel on this day—I felt quite content. Throughout the shift, I admired the older couples coming in, buying heart-shaped cookies and interrupting one another as I rang them up. I drank enough coffee to get that jittery feeling akin to butterflies in my stomach. I passed espresso to my coworker, and he passed milk to me in a flow that felt like dancing. My eyes had that dewy, blissful feeling you get when you are in love: I was in love with the world, but still, indifferent to Valentine’s Day.
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