A Reluctant Valentine

To set the record straight, Valentine’s Day is not a precious occasion for togetherness and budding romance. It is not a source of warmth and comfort to thaw the winter’s cold. And tomorrow is certainly not the day when my yang will finally merge with its yin—at least, not without a measure of divine intervention. When my yin discovers how little thought I’ve given to this sanctified day, let alone that I’ve called her my yin, I’ll probably need a lot more than a favor from the gods on high.

If you’re anything like me, you’ve probably done your best to ignore the maddening chatter of your friends as they scheme and strategize. How tragic it is to watch promising minds turn to mush when the problems they face switch from political theory and organic chemistry to taxi cabs and dinner reservations. Valentine’s Day really isn’t that hard. Hundreds of movies spell out a fool-proof formula for even the most unimaginative Romeo: greet her with flowers, take her for a fancy and overpriced meal and stroll along together, warming the winter air with her caresses.

Yet, straightforward as all this is, the day is nearly upon us and I can’t bring myself to make any preparation—not so much as a card. It’s not simply a matter of laziness or apathy: I like playing Casanova, and half the fun is planning a surprise. And it has nothing to do with the injustice Valentine’s Day inflicts upon poor singles, left to commiserate with one another and bleat ceaselessly about their wretched condition. Please, spare me the self-pity.

My aversion to Cupid and his arbitrary holiday is rooted in the expectation that I participate in a nationwide romance-pageant, where my genetic desirability—or lack thereof—is shamelessly pitted against that of my fellow man when I have no say in the matter. I’m a sucker for romance, but no one asked if this particular Thursday works for me. No one cared that I lose my appetite when hundreds of couples giggle and coo on all sides and when the sexual tension at the neighboring table is enough to make me sweat. I may not like to see grown people feed each other, and I may not deserve the accusatory stares of singles looking on, as if simply by having a date I’m somehow responsible for the nauseating display. But my opinion carries no weight today.

No amount of disdain or resistance can change the cruel truth that Valentine’s Day is not optional. Do not be fooled when a date may reassure you that she’s open to your alternative conception of romance, with its emphasis on spontaneous affection without the pretense of custom. If you skimp on Valentine’s Day, she’s going to feel left out. She’ll wonder why other guys succeed in wooing their dates in spite of the artifice we loathe, and why she is the only girlfriend without a date. It’s no use trying to be her Romeo on some later, less mandatory occasion, because she’ll still doubt your devotion. After all, isn’t she worthy of a little sacrifice of pride—and principle—one day each year?

Our dates will judge us whether or not we choose to take part in tomorrow’s charade, and defiance is a dangerous gamble. For those of you with the chutzpah to stay the course and risk life and love, you are truly admirable. You will suffer heavy casualties, but the overthrow of an undemocratic institution is certainly a noble cause.

As for me, I’ve got 364 days to look forward to this year, and I’m not about to jeopardize them all just to save tomorrow. But I’ll be cheering for you 100 percent.

By the way, do you think ’Nochs takes reservations?