Love in the Time of... Evil Commercial Holidays

My freshman year of college, I spent Valentine’s Day wearing black. My friends, who are of the “We Love This Holiday Because We LOVE love!” camp, dragged me to the The Bridge to see How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days. Then they did everything in their power to stop me from throwing things at the screen.

Now, I’m normally a sucker for romantic comedies, but bitter single chic + chipper friends + a theater filled with snuggling couples + Kate Hudson purposely acting a damn fool = Tri-State Area, beware the Wrath of Katie.

Sophomore year, my friends and I drowned our sorrows in chocolate. We went to the Chocolate Buffet at the Ritz. We were able to laugh at the couples who didn’t have the good sense to reserve a table. Then we dragged our stuffed selves homes. My roommates and I fell asleep watching Sex and the City.

That pleasant evening did not become a tradition. The following year, in an attempt to distract me from the apartment their boyfriends had filled with flowers and candy, my roomies talked me into meeting them for lunch in one of Penn’s student centers… where an Annual “LOVE-AND-HEARTS-AND-RAINBOWS-AND-LET’S-ALL-SQUEEEAAAAL-WHILE-WE-MAKE-OUR-CRUSHES-CARDS!” Fest was in full swing.

I growled at the girls, announced that "the color pink" could "blow me," downed my Houston Hall sushi (which I miss dearly), and gathered my belongings to leave for class.

Or, at least, I tried to.

It was raining. And some Valentine’s-Day-celebrating fucker had stolen my umbrella.

I went to the bookstore and bought the first umbrella I saw. Ten minutes after opening it, I realized it was a Wharton umbrella. I opened it. I couldn’t return it. But I could take a black Sharpie to it. Until a friend borrowed it and left it in a cab, I was the proud owner of Penn’s only College of Arts and Sciences umbrella.

Last year, I got smart. By December 14th, I had scheduled the shit out of Valentine’s Day. I spent the day visiting my high school for my independent research on Black History Month. When I got back to campus, I went to the Penn-Princeton basketball game, and I spent the rest of the night finishing up speeches with the other board members of Penn’s VDay Campaign (The Vagina Monologues opened the next day). And, I won’t lie, it helped that I was seeing someone at the time, and even though I certainly didn’t see him that day, he did call to say “Happy Valentine’s Day, beautiful,” first thing in the morning. This kept me from heaving on my high school’s gym floor as I sat in on an assembly that began with people making “OMG I, like, LOVE you, here’s a CARNATION!” announcements for fifteen minutes.

This year, I’m single, yet as I don’t anticipate my cat receiving flowers, my apartment is a Safe Zone. And I’m busy. But my busy is a product of the show I’m working on (which is in an adorable restaurant on Valentine’s Day, thus happy couples are encouraged to see it as part of their celebration) – and the fact that I work retail.

I am currently spending my working hours in a rose and pink-tissue-filled hell. So far, I’ve only had one customer yell at me while selecting a Valentine’s Day gift, but if my experiences during Mother’s Day, Christmas, Hanukkah, hell, even Administrative Assistant's Day, have taught me anything, it's that shit is about to get a whole lot worse.

That’s why this is running a week in advance. I expect to have many a horror story by the 14th. Should my instincts be wrong, I will be more than happy to eat my words and find something else to write about. But I don’t suspect that’ll be the case.

Image via rushby.netprehosting.com.