Give Me a Break

In the aftermath of one of the most overblown Hallmark holidays, it seems necessary to temper all this love and happiness with a little rage.

But first, let me offer you, my readers, a short historical profile. According to the "Valentine Be Mine" Website, Valentine's Day was originally known as the Feast of Lupercus. "During this time," the site explains, "hordes of hungry wolves roamed outside of Rome where shepherds kept their flocks. Every February the Romans celebrated a feast called Lupercalia to honor [the god] Lupercus so that no harm would come to the shepherds and their flocks." The feast also involved a matchmaking ceremony in which boys and girls were set up on dates by lot. Later, when Christianity became more popular, the pagan ritual of Lupercalia was renamed after Saint Valentine, though reports differ on who this saint was and why he was associated with the holiday.

Somehow, as time progressed, the celebration of driving away wolves became the celebration of reigning in affection. And somehow, as time progressed, Valentine's Day became a synonym for spending. From diamonds to roses, from chocolates to fancy dinners, from overpriced cards to those little candy hearts, the taste of which almost everyone despises, Valentine's Day has become the consummate consumer's favorite day of the year.

Let's get one thing straight: it ain't about love--not unless you associate love with your bank account. Take, for example, the New York Valentine's Day culinary scene. Most New York restaurants upped their prices this year, either concocting prix fixe menus or requiring payment before service, enacting a system of down-payment reservations. Forget about the Lady and the Tramp love story, starstruck and bankrupt lovers sharing a plate of spaghetti by candlelight. This year it was: No credit card, no service.

But the V-Day problem transcends even New York. In Athens, reported The New York Times, one store owner, straying from the typical Valentine's Day display, hired a 25-year-old woman to sport a red-rose bikini and black lace-up boots in his store window. How romantic.

Romance was never the key word, though. One woman I know received a particularly beautiful vase of red and white roses from her boyfriend. "They're great, aren't they?" she said, showing me the flowers. "But I had to give instructions. Last year, I got red roses with baby's breath. Can you imagine? I grew up in Ohio. Red roses with baby's breath are what you wear as a prom corsage. Tacky, tacky, tacky." Sometimes it is the gift, and not the thought, that counts.

Of course, it's not that we shouldn't celebrate love, because we should; as the clichÈ goes, love is a many-splendored thing, and all clichÈs contain a grain or two of truth. And if it's not exactly love that we're celebrating, we should at least be celebrating the people in our lives who make our lives worth living. If we are to acknowledge this holiday, if we are to indulge in romantic fantasies and gooey sentimentalism, then it should be for the right reasons. People should be buying roses because they're in love, not because Feb. 14 demands that they do so. People should be buying those Necco hearts because their significant others like the taste of them (the six flavors of which, Martha Stewart announced earlier this week, are orange, grape, cherry, banana, wintergreen, and lemon), and not because it is considered romantic to buy candy hearts.

But, alas, this is America, land of the free, home of the brave, and country of the consumer. Inevitably, those of us who steered clear of the drug store candy aisles this Valentine's Day were also the ones who were home that night, listening to Roy Orbison croon "Only the Lonely." Those of us who were alone on V-Day, however, those of us who freely admit to watching "Lifetime: Television for Women" and tearing up at the decadent romance displayed therein, have the objectivity to see the holiday for what it really is. We lonely hearts may not know much about love, but we do know that love is not a $50 dinner at a nice restaurant, and love is not candy hearts that say "Be Mine." We know that love is not a 25-year-old Greek blonde dancing in a store window, donning a flower bikini and a pair of leather boots, and we know that, when we find love, we will not complain about red roses with baby's breath. We know that we will not complain at all. Hannah Selinger is a Columbia College senior majoring in English and comparative literature.