Love is a stale candy heart.
My cousin Porter is in second grade, and today, he asked a girl to be his Valentine. I’m 20-years-old, and the last time I got a Valentine’s from a boy was in sixth grade. The card was simple, straight to the point. It read:
“You’re sweet. Love, Caleb.”
But besides that one card, my valentines have consisted of stale candy conversation hearts from classmates I couldn’t point out in a picture. So pretty much Valentine’s Day is just another day of the year. I’m not a hater in any way, though. If you want to wear pink and carry around chocolates and flowers all day, more power to you. It’s just not for me.
The thing is, I love love. I am a hopeless romantic to the core. I sobbed while watching “Casablanca.” I’m a sucker for a good meet cute, and wedding planning is my backup career if this whole journalism thing doesn’t work out. So why wouldn’t I partake in the love day celebrations?
I blame it on my parents.
My dad never got my mom flowers on Valentine’s Day, but he would bring them home on a Sunday after church. He didn’t make any special meal for us on Feb. 14, but he would take me out on a Tuesday night to get burgers and tater-tots and then wander around Barnes and Noble. He didn’t buy me a stuffed animal bear holding a heart, but he’d pick me up early from school on a Monday in the spring and surprise me with tickets to a Rockies game.
So I guess that’s why I’m the way I am. I just like the little unexpected moments – not the Hallmark holiday moments.
-Taylor
Love is a towed car.
At 10:30 p.m. Feb. 14, 2024, I stood huddled under a streetlight on Lyndale Ave with two of my friends, Gretchen and Noelle. Snow swirled around us and soaked our hair as we tried to type a frantic text message to our friend Megan with numb fingers.
Lesson learned: if there’s a chance it might blizzard while you’re at Galentine’s dinner with your roommates, make sure you’re not parked anywhere near an emergency snow plow route. Otherwise, you might end up begging your roommate with a Subaru Outback to brave the slushy roads and rescue you because your car got towed.
Not that I’m complaining. That night is one of my favorite memories from last spring semester.
I don’t really care about Valentine’s Day. Cliche, corrupted by capitalism, overhyped. And pink isn’t my favorite color. But Galentine’s Day? Best day of the year. Even trudging in the snow and trying to find the nearest tow lot makes for a good memory when I’m with my friends.
Why wouldn’t I celebrate how much I love my best friends? The friends who have burned CDs for me, driven four hours to surprise me, prayed for me and cried with me. I could write a love letter to them any day. I guess I am right now.
-Kat
Love is a PACER test.
A scratchy light pink sweater. The smell of blonde hair sizzling from a hot curling rod. Bubble gum pink eyeshadow, cherry red lip gloss from Claire’s and a tiny denim skirt layered over a pair of white tights.
It was Valentine’s Day 2017, and I felt pretty. The kind of pretty that turns heads and makes people whisper. The kind of pretty that makes you trot into Friendly Hills Middle School with a big toothy smile and the confidence of a Disney Channel star. Any second the chatty boy with fluffy brown hair from grade seven would walk by and hand me a heart shaped card with the handwritten words: “Be my Valentine.”
My heart ached for it. My reputation depended on it. I couldn’t be the only girl in my friend group who was Valentine-less on Valentine’s Day. How humiliating.
The bell rings. Homeroom.
I sit with my friends in the back of the classroom. Their conversations fade, distorting into white noise as I glue my eyes to the front door. Waiting.
The bell rings. Science.
The teacher blabs on about infectious diseases and bacteria, but all I can hear is Jessica Johnson’s squeals in the back of the classroom. A football player has just handed her a box of Lindor chocolates.
The bell rings. English.
Similes and allusions and metaphors and hyperboles. If I don’t get that card by the end of class I’ll have a heart attack. There’s a hyperbole for you.
The bell rings. Social studies.
Then lunch.
Then math.
Then gym.
My curls had unraveled and my eyeshadow melted. I got the highest PACER test score of all the girls in my class: 75. But still no card. Prince Charming never came.
And that stinging feeling of disappointment when my expectations are squashed hasn’t faded with time. But I’ve found better places to put it. And it certainly isn’t on Valentine’s Day. Or boys who don’t keep promises.
And though I’m eternally grateful for friends and family who shower me with love 365 days a year, and not just Feb. 14th, I’ve learned that my source of joy, love, acceptance and confidence will always be a perfect and loving heavenly Father, something a heart-shaped card or a chatty boy with fluffy brown hair could never be.
-Emily
