Please welcome guest bloggers Elisa Lorello and Sarah Girrell (both of whom were guests on Book Chatter last Friday night), co-authors of the great new novel Why I Love Singlehood, recently released by AmazonEncore. You can enter to win an ebook of WILS by leaving a comment below. I will draw a name from the comments at random tomorrow.
A Chronology of Valentines
The insanity begins around eight years old, when your mom sends you to school armed with 25 identical cards the size of bookmarks, one for each classmate – even the ones you despise – that says, “You are Special!” You count the cards you receive, desperate to be sure that you weren’t skipped by anyone (and more often that not, you were).
By adolescence, courtesy is out the window and you’re not getting the pity Valentines from politically correct moms. No, you’ve been upgraded to flowers distributed by homeroom teachers, and woe to the one who gets none. (Or perhaps you had the misfortune to be out sick when Valentine’s Day was on a Friday, and returned on Monday to three wilted carnations from your only three friends, none of them boys.)
By eighteen, Valentine’s Day is about the devotion. You not only clean out Hallmark’s card stock, but cuddly toys are now involved. You text your valentine incessantly, trying to figure out how many ways one can say, “I would *so* turn into a vampire for you.”
It only gets worse. At twenty-five, Valentine’s Day is synonymous with credit card debt. Because if you’re not maxing out your Visa on a trip to Puerto Rico with your beloved, you’re with your three best girlfriends in attempt to prove that you don’t need a man. And if, God forbid, you’re single on Valentine’s Day, you’re in that dark place of LIFE SUCKS AND THEN YOU DIE. ALONE. Russell Stover does nothing to dissuade you of this notion.
By your thirties, despite copious amounts of chick lit telling you to do otherwise, you’ve lightened up a bit. You now celebrate Valentine’s Day the day after, when you’ve scored on 50% off chocolates, regardless of whether you’re in a relationship.
By forty, the most romantic thing your Valentine can do for you is buy dishwashing liquid—or motor oil—because he/she noticed you were out of it. And, after considerable Googling, you’ve discovered that St. Valentine had a rather sordid past.