The annual invasion of pink hearts, candy, and flowers is nearly over. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, which means that in a couple days all the pink will disappear from supermarkets, drugstores, and Hallmark, to be replaced with shamrocks and leprechauns. And I'll be able to go into a store without wrinkling my nose in disgust.
Yeah, I know, as a woman I'm supposed to get all mushy this time of year, slip jewelry ads under my husband's bowl of b'fast cereal, and drop not-so-subtle hints about romantic dinners and bouquets of roses. Instead I mutter darkly about fake holidays concocted by the floral and greeting card industry and come up with creative new ways to mark the occasion, all of which are a bit unconventional. My best idea this year: Have an 80's horror film fest! A little Jason, a little Freddie, and cap the evening with (what else) My Bloody Valentine. After all, nothing says romance like a good ol' slasher flick. These were the date movies of my youth. The first date I ever went on (well, it was sort of a date... one could argue about definitions, but never mind) was a double feature: Firestarter and Nightmares. I loved it. A couple years later, when hubby and I started dating, our romantic Friday nights usually involved Jason disemboweling teenagers in Technicolor and surround sound. Quite the mood-setter, that. Maybe I should market my own line of Valentine's Day cards based on the romances of my youth. I'm picturing a masked man with a box of chocolates in one hand and a machete in the other. I can't understand why Hallmark doesn't return my calls.
Some years I find V-Day genuinely depressing, but this year I've hardly noticed the profusion of pink. I'm in too good a mood to care. The days are getting longer, I've been able to do some gardening, and spring is in the air. What's a cheesy holiday and a few bad memories compared to that?
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