(Actually, because it's based on an established-relationship paradigm -- yawn, boring! -- it is perhaps the day you are least likely to fuck.)
That being said, bear with Manola's love-logic here, will ya?
For the first time in Manola's adult life, she actually didn't experience garden-variety angst. Violins meowing in the background, wrist against clammy forehead: "Oh pity me, I'm lonely on February 14th!" In fact, she was relieved that she didn't think once, let alone twice, about the engagements, marriages, divorces and children that never happened.
She didn't think about last year's VD, and how her ex, Mr. Thinks He's Huge, proclaimed from the ivory tower of bachelor insecurity: "It's such a false pretense," he said. "Everyday should be Valentine's Day."
But as it turns out, every day is NOT Valentine's Day. In fact, if you're going to speak about false pretenses, let's not forget to mention, that those MEN WE ARE NOT MEANT TO BE WITH always find an excuse for not being tactful, generous, thoughtful, passionate and loving on that rare day singled out by most of humanity to stop making excuses for ignoring the one you supposedly love.
And let's not forget, that if the expression of love and appreciation for all of those who are dear to us requires some special, souped-up commercial day -- well then, that's a sad state of affairs, but it is what it is, and it's better than nothing.
I recently spoke to a friend of mine who has been with her husband nearly two decades. He had never brought her flowers. Yes, it only took two decades, two children, one marriage on the rocks, and one well-earned affair for a most-frustrated wife of a cuckolded husband to finally figure out that his wife might like a dozen roses FOR NO REASON WHATSOEVER.
After I lent a devoted ear to my friend, I asked myself, "how could I complain that Mr. Thinks He's Huge had never brought me a single rose petal in the spell of two years?"
So I wonder: if everyday should be Valentine's Day and if it actually were, he'd return my phone calls after proclaiming some egomaniacal Napoleonesque possession of my body and soul. What's more, he'd respect my sexual limits, he'd go to the ER with me after he gave me a UTI, he'd actually marry me after asking in a drunken stupor, he'd honor me in spite of his his past obligations, he'd rarely humiliate me (cut him some slack here, after all, he's human) ... he'd love me (ah!) ... and at the very least, he'd find me worthy of forking over a few cents for a single rose. Mr. Thinks He's Huge NEVER brought me a single stamen, pistel or withered pathetic leaf from the flower vendor's day-old special. Heck, I never even had to sneeze after sniffing a good puff of pollen. Sad, but true.
No, not everyday is Valentine's Day, to be sure. And neither is any other day, for that matter. Certainly not the day you meet, not the day you fall in love, not the day you get married, not the day you have a child, not the day you say farewell, or -- God forbid -- the day you bury the one you loved.
Of course not.
Wake up and smell the roses. He'd forget to bring flowers to your funeral, surely.
My friend, the one who had the affair and whose mortgage-bound, child-committed grass is supposed to be greener on the other side of marital status, asked me if she should stay with the one she needs or the one she loves. "I wouldn't know. I don't have an answer," I replied. "But I do know this. He finally gave you flowers. Sign of love, baby."
My crudely-honed acumen in the game of love tells me that everyday with the man WE ARE NOT MEANT TO BE WITH involves learning how to distinguish between false pretenses and days that never matter from true intentions and daily commitments that do.
There are men who buy you flowers thinking they are going to seduce you for a night with such a simple gesture. There are men who pretend to want to spend the rest of their lives with you who never buy you flowers. And then there are men who buy you flowers because they love you and never want to spend a night without you. The MAN YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE WITH will know the difference. And so will you.
Happy Valentine's Day ... next year ... I hope.
*Of course, the politically correct term for VD is STD. Venereal Disease became Sexually Transmitted Disease when, at some point during human evolution, English-speaking people lost the ability to remember, understand and incorporate complex latinate words into their daily speech.