My grandfather (my dad’s dad) had some amazing catch phrases. When you said “What?” or “Huh?” he’d say, “Huh heck boy, pay attention.”Or when someone mentioned something absurd to spend money on, he’d say, “It sounds like a communistic plot to separate me from my money.”
Well, I’m pretty convinced Valentine’s Day is the capitalistic plot to separate you from your money.
And tomorrow happens to be Valentine’s Day.
For some of you guys that was a much needed reminder. The feeling of “Oh crap I forgot” just rushed over you, throwing you into a pathetic panic. You’ll undoubtedly rush out and buy flowers, candies or one of the estimated one billion Valentine cards sent out worldwide on Valentine’s Day.
Has the world gone nuts? (Yes). We’ve become so detached from the concept of true love for that significant other that we’ve compartmentalized it into one day. We’ve “holidayed” love. Is this surprising? No. We’re Americans. It’s how we operate.
“It’s too much of a hassle to love my wife all year. Thank goodness we have Valentine’s Day and a wedding anniversary I can barely remember.”
I mean Valentine’s Day is such a brilliant economic scheme. The mastermind behind creating it had such a vision…a vision to separate you from your money.
Seriously, the Valentine’s Day industry loves the fact that we suck at expressing ourselves for 364 days a year and then spend a bunch of money trying to do so on every February 14th.
I’m not cynical about love. I’m cynical about what Americans have done to it.
The other night I was wandering aimlessly around Wal-Mart with my friend Taylor. His mom, like mine, is a choco-holic. The best way to feed our mothers chocolate is to malt it down and put it into an IV.
He was hunting for 75% cocoa chocolate, the heavy stuff-the hard stuff.
I couldn’t understand him at all. He’s buying his mom a Valentine’s gift. He asked me why I wasn’t buying something for my mom. As we moseyed up and down the Wal-Mart candy aisle I said, “Because I have a father.”
That’s what he’s for! One of his primary purposes is to love and cherish my mom as his wife-and not just on Valentine’s Day. Taking my mom out and being her Valentine-that ain’t my bag; I don’t know what to do with it. It’s my father’s deal and he digs that.
Millions of American sons get their moms gifts on February 14th. And then the other 364 days of the year they treat their moms like a short order cook and personal assistant. You’ve gotta be kidding me. When did this become acceptable?
I am by no means the perfect son. But try this: instead of sending your mom flowers and goodies on Valentine ‘s Day (or even Mother’s Day) pick a random day sometime in the year and send her a hand written letter and a small token of appreciation. Your mother knocked on death’s door to bring you into this world-even if she’s a sucky mom, tell her you love her-I dare you. For once in your life don’t follow the culture, the capitalistic society leading you along like a lamb to the economic slaughter. Think about it.
I just believe we need to treat each other better. I mean they’re called “loved ones,” not “ignored-mistreated ones.” Right?
America has become wrapped up in the lies about love. “Hey, I can treat everyone like crap and then throw money at the situation once or twice a year. Then everything will be smiles and snack cakes.” I’m not surprised really-after all, we are totally depraved.
Anyway, all I’m saying is this: quit drinking the Kool Aid. How about picking her some flowers or buying her some flowers when she doesn’t expect it, like some other day but tomorrow. Or instead of buying crappy candy, spend the day with her baking muffins or a cake or whatever baked goods she likes.
I don’t really have the cure all relationship answer. I just think Valentine’s Day definitely isn’t the answer. February 14th can’t and shouldn’t be the day that we use as an excuse for 364 days of unacceptable words and deeds toward our loved ones.
So while you’re enjoying your Valentine’s afternoon with whoever it is you deem as your Valentine, think of me and just consider what I’ve said.
