My first Valentine was a Woody. Woody Gunter, that is.
When we were in the sixth grade at a little Episcopal elementary school in Dallas, he took me to the Valentine's Day dance and gave me a gold ring. I gave him a red paper heart and a box of Sweetheart candies.
He and I got along just fine until his mom picked me up in her white LeBaron convertible and dropped us off at the movies. Woody made a pass during City Slickers 2 and I made haste to the payphone to call my own mom to pick me up. It was Woody's first heartbreak and my first experience in boy-world.
In the ten years since, I've had a number of Valentines. Some were over-zealous in their gift giving, showering me with chocolate, cards and balloons. Others were less enthusiastic, handing off a red-enveloped card as they brushed past on their way to the Nintendo.
This year, my Valentine and I won't be celebrating February 14, not because we're splitting up or planning a colossal WWIII type argument, but because it's just...silly.
Legend has it that Valentine's Day evolved out of a pretty nasty dispute between Roman Emperor Claudius II and Saint Valentine, a Roman priest. Apparently Claudius ("the cruel") couldn't get soldiers to join his army. Why? Claudius believed that potential warriors didn't want to leave their wives or sweethearts. Rather than pull an LBJ and jump-start the draft, the good emperor cancelled all engagements and marriages in Rome.
Valentine, appalled by Claudius' ban, performed secret marriage ceremonies for love-struck young Romans. But here comes the good part.
When Claudius discovered Valentine's betrayal, he condemned the saint to death by way of a nice old-fashioned bludgeoning and decapitation. While imprisoned and nearing his final days, Valentine fell in love with his jailer's daughter. On the day of his execution, February 14, A.D. 296, the martyr wrote his beloved a letter. He signed it "From Your Valentine."
And so it began. Two hundred years later Pope Gelato, I mean Gelasius, set aside February 14 to honor the ill-fated saint.
Answer me something. How does bludgeoning and decapitation evolve into boxes of chocolate, red lacey lingerie and the recitation of Elizabeth Barrett Browning? And why should my man and I pump our hard-earned "I'm a journalism peon" cash into Hallmark and Dove? Cards get tossed. And chocolate? Chocolate equals chunk.
I'll admit it. Part of me likes the idea of sweet surprise every now and then. But I want it on January 17, or November 29, or April 11, and just because. I don't want it on a day that my grocer, florist and Victoria's Secret cashier deem appropriate. Commercially mandated gifts don't translate into love.
Valentine's Day has a nice sentimentality behind it, a sort of saccharine endearing quality. For me, though, an overpriced meal and a sappy sonnet can't substitute for enjoying a burger, beer and a Simpsons episode with my funny valentine-365 days a year.
Kelly Vaughn is a journalism senior. Reach her at kelly.vaughn@asu.edu
