Pink Valentine’s morning here:

There was a part of me that kind of hated it.

Although I am very, very happily married (sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and think, Really?  He married me?), I cannot move beyond my distrust of Valentine’s Day.  I simply loathe it.  I want to stop it.  Who really benefits from Valentine’s Day?  Certainly the florist, Victoria’s Secret, the chocolatier, and American Express.  But who else?

The single gal, having attained a level of education intimidating to far too many men, who is faithful to her gym, her IRA, and her credit report?  Who would be ever more faithful to a man who would reciprocate?  But cannot, despite her best efforts, despite her therapist, despite her Julia Child repertoire, despite her Creme de la Mer face wash, find such a man?  No, not the single gal.  If there were no Valentine’s Day, the single gal’s scattered silver hairs would not mock her from the mirror on the morning of February 14.

The beloved girlfriend, who waits patiently year after year for a proposal from darling boyfriend that never comes?  No, not the beloved girlfriend.  Valentine’s Day approaches and even though said boyfriend is a total hipster who wouldn’t be caught dead buying blood diamonds from Kay Jewelers, beloved equally-hip girlfriend’s mind betrays her.  She wonders, will this be the year?  If there were no Valentine’s Day, then her darling boyfriend would remain darling allyear long, and she wouldn’t forsake her principles by even considering such a prosaic proposal.

The bedraggled significant other, whose man generally displays his affection for her only on February 14 of each year, and sends her overpriced roses that will die in one week, when they are already 90 days behind on their power bill?  No, not the bedraggled significant other.  If there were no Valentine’s Day, then her pathetic man would be pathetic 365 days per year, instead of 364, and she would not be forced to face this fact on an annual basis.

The widow?  No, not the widow.  And let’s please expand the term to include the women left to grieve the men who’ve gone before them, married or not.  The widow is left to remember Valentine’s Days of the past, and whether she disapproved wholeheartedly or was enamored of whatever actions her deceased love took or did not take, she still had something to ream or praise him for, back in those happy days.  For better or worse, she did, in those days, have a Valentine.  If there were no Valentine’s Day, the widow would have one less day of the calendar year that attacks her like a yellow jacket, and leaves a stinger to throb under her unpainted fingernail.

The happy wife, like me?  And again, let’s expand this term to include the women in healthy, happy relationships who haven’t bothered to involve the State in their love affairs.  This happy wife looks at her darling husband, and then looks at all of her friends, those precious women in her life who told her over and over that she’d meet the right one, who held her hair back when she drank to meet the right one and failed miserably, who cried real tears of joy over the phone when she actually did meet the right one, and who stood by her side the day she married the right one.  This happy wife knows that few of these women are happy wives, that most of them are single gals, widowed ladies, beloved girlfriends, bedraggled significant others, or women bleeding in between these stereotypes.  As a result, this happy wife just can’t see what’s so sweet and rosy about Valentine’s Day.  This happy wife wants to bulldoze down the tacky pink and red decorations that are plastered everywhere from gas stations (sure makes me feel romantic while dumping 50 gallons of gas into my car) to elementary schools (yes, let’s indoctrinate our children with the idea that you’re only loved if your lover is forever chained to the Amex bill),  to petition the FCC to yank the air time from the cheesy Every Kiss Begins with Kay jingle, to demand a cease fire from the 1800FLOWERS ads.

So now you know.  Honeydew married the most unromantic woman in the world.  As proof, look what I sent him for Valentine’s Day (and yes I realize that it might be somewhat hypocritical to rant and rave about Blackentine’s and then go and send my love a trinket, but I send him something every week):

I don’t take for granted being a happy wife, though I like to remind Honeydew that’s what’s mine is mine, what’s his is mine, and what’s our is mine.  Happy Blackentine’s Day.  May your conversation hearts be direct and not ambiguous.  And not green!  Bleeccccch.