Parting Shot
Mark loves ...
By Mark J. Lucas |
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Valentine's Day is bullshit.
Then again, all men think this. The men in relationships think this, because it means they're going to have to spend a boatload of money on flowers and a heart-shaped box full of chocolate. This is true across the board. An intern who works in our office tells us his girlfriend "isn't into the whole Valentine's Day thing," and doesn't want him to do anything special for her, so his conclusion was that she meant what she said. We then all laughed at the foolish intern.
Contributing writer and Valentine's Day stick-in-the-mud, Mark J. Lucas
"Let's say there was a male-equivalent to Valentine's Day, where every man was expected to receive wild sex and beer. Wouldn't you be disappointed if your girlfriend was the only one who didn't participate - even if you were crazy enough to say that you didn't enjoy these things?"
"Well...yeah."
"Then save yourself a few awkward, silent car rides and passive-aggressive arguments and buy a f***in' heart full of chocolate and some Calla Lilies."
Doesn't want anything for Valentine's Day! P'shaw! That's always a lie. The gals that say they don't like Valentine's Day are the ones who'll be most put off if they don't get anything. It stems from a condition called Post-Valentinian Pre-Pubescent Rejection Syndrome in which she, like many unfortunate American children, was a participant in an elementary school Valentine's Day that did not go well.
Flashback time...
The year: 1992. Valentine's Day. The Maastricht Treaty was signed, creating the European Union. Mike Tyson had just been convicted of raping Desiree Washington, and Jeffrey Dahmer would soon be sentenced to life in prison for torturing, dismembering, and eating 17 people - but far worse evil was occurring in Avery Elementary School, where I was sitting at my desk with a little paper bag. On this bag was a red heart with my name written in marker underneath, and inside would be deposited a variety of grocery-store Valentine's Day cards from my female classmates.
You must understand that I was a terribly awkward child. I sported large, thick glasses, wore clothes that never matched, and generally sported hair in total disarray. My penchant for science and math, corny sense of humor, and lack of sports knowledge would place me well within the "nerd" category of elementary school social strata. Dorks, you see, are not intelligent, and geeks usually have a fixation on a hobby. I would typically be the mechanism of one schoolgirl's ridicule for another. It would go like this:
"You're so ugly, you have to date Robbie Peterson."
"Yeah well, you're so ugly you have to date Freddy Mosten!"
"Oh yeah, well you'll never do better than MARK LUCAS!"
This remark was regarded as such a low blow that it could end a friendship. The mere mention that a girl's social status had sunk so low that she would be relegated to date me was a form of character assassination. Just as the Eskimos have no word for war, there is no translation in "adult" for this sort of insult.
As every girl had to give every boy in class a Valentine, and vice versa, the girls in my class would take painstaking efforts to ensure that the Valentine designated for me was the most platonic available. Usually they would select some cartoon dog or fish with a neutral phrase like:
"You're Okay in my book!"
or
"Have a rockin' Valentine's day!"
or
"I was required to give you this!"
That last one was popular, for some reason, though I can't figure out why the card company would black out a section in the middle of the card and hand-write that phrase below it. In hindsight, it seems like an unnecessary expenditure of resources.
On this Valentine's Day, however, while I was walking around the room distributing my equally platonic cards (I'd learned my lesson from the previous year with a hand-made card to Keiko, a Japanese exchange student; it's seems I was a nerd in any language) someone had left something different in my little brown bag. Amongst the paper cards was a book.
The Runaway Robot, by Lester Del Rey.
Inside, there was a note.
"I thought you might like this. Happy Valentine's Day, Marc."
No name. I could hardly blame her. Social suicide is not easy on children. Even though this anonymous girl had spelled my name wrong, it was, to date, the nicest gesture ever extended to me by a girl. She even noticed that I liked science fiction. I would have asked one of my friends if they'd seen who put it in there, but I had no friends to ask.
A few years later, I would be riding the pine at a middle school Valentine dance, wearing the new slacks and button-up shirt my parents had bought me the day before. Now, I was a tall nerd with acne, but I'd learned to comb my hair. As I sat there by myself, watching everyone else dance and have a good time, I began to question why I'd come at all, when I received a tap on the shoulder. It was Roxanne, a cute girl from my class who had moved away for a few years and come back.
"I want to dance with you."
Really more of a command than a question.
"Uh...sure. Yes. Do you want some punch?"
"No, I want to dance. With you."
And with that, she whisked me onto the dance floor (the gym/auditorium/cafeteria). We danced like fools. We danced fast, we danced slow, we danced poorly - which was probably my fault, because though I didn't tell her, it was the first time I'd danced with a girl that wasn't my mom. I'm sure she could tell. If there was any doubt, she could always refer to the number of shoeprints on her high heels. What I remember most clearly is that she only danced with me. She didn't even look around to see if there was a more desirable partner, or other girls making fun of her.
At the end of the dance, we all made our way to our parent's cars. She walked with me all the way to the parking lot. Just before she disappeared into the back seat of a Honda Civic, she turned to me and asked:
"Did you like the book?"
"What book?"
"The Runaway Robot."
"Yes, I did," I stammered.
"I thought you would."
Then she left. I saw her a few more times in the hallway after that. She'd smile at me, and I'd smile at her, but that was the extent of it. I didn't know if she had done those things because she felt sorry for me or because she genuinely liked me. To be honest, I didn't care to find out. I was satisfied with the illusion...
Where was I?
Oh yeah, Valentine's Day is bullshit. It's a corporately exacerbated holiday designed to hock candy and flowers to people, and if you really love somebody you'd do right to tell them so on all the days other than the pre-prescribed day vendors are waiting to rip you off. Regardless, it can't hurt to overshoot it. Worst case scenario, you get a roll of the eyes. Nobody hates feeling appreciated by someone else.
Why do you think I still have that book? It's a terrible read.
Originally Published: February 1, 2010
