Valentine’s Day Aftermath

I have never been a big fan of Valentine’s Day and never had a significant other who especially wanted to celebrate it either. My husband and I always just exchange cards and go to dinner. That’s it. Yet, even though I wholeheartedly agree with the “not wasting our money on flowers and gifts” policy we’ve established, I still get little twinges of envy when I see big, lush bouquets being delivered to my co-workers’ desks. It’s a catch-22; I wouldn’t feel good about having my husband spend that kind of money on me on a holiday I don’t consider meaningful, but I also don’t feel good when mine is the only desk without roses on it.

So, in honor of what I consider to be the lamest holiday of the year, I would like to regale all of you with my funniest Valentine’s Day story. I swear that this is completely true. Picture this:

I’m 13 and in eighth grade. I have a major, major crush on this boy named Joe, a blonde, blue-eyed basketball player (who, being 13 and a boy, has no idea that I exist). So, my girlfriends and I have this little tradition that on Valentines’ Day we exchange single stems of flowers. It’s Valentine’s Day, 1988. I’m walking down the hall at school, carrying an assortment of flowers that I’ve been given. My girlfriends and I see Joe walking in our direction and they all start saying, “Give a flower to Joe!” Somehow, I work up the nerve to do it. I walk over to him and say “Happy Valentine’s Day, Joe” and hand him a carnation. And then I run.

Cut to the next day. Joe is not in class. The next day, Joe is still not in class. I finally ask his lab partner where Joe is and he sighs deeply and tells me. Joe is allergic to carnations. Violently allergic, it seems. I poisoned the poor kid!! He broke out in hives all over his body and was out of school for three days. And no, he NEVER spoke to me after that.

I’m just thankful that this Valentine’s Day passed without anyone breaking out in hives.

Rosebud