Ten years ago this week, I went on a first date. The guy in question is currently asleep, one couch over, tonight’s romantic comedy evidently not being quite enough to hold his attention.
Neither of us remembered to commemorate the actual date this year. I wouldn’t remember it at all, to tell the truth, except that 2001 was the year when my feud with February began. I had a terrible bout of influenza. I came home, alone, on Valentine’s Day to find The World’s Creepiest Gift (broken Minnie Mouse doll, stuffed in a black garbage bag) from the building’s maintenance man. It was not my finest hour.
So when we had our second date on Saint Patrick’s Day, a week after the first, I said, “Forget Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day is stupid. THIS is a holiday.”
Best decision I ever made.