Thanks to my Mom for emailing me with Jesse Kornbluth's take on Valentine's Day. He nails it:
Valentine’s Day. Loathe it. At 8 AM on Madison Avenue, I gawk at a woman in a full-length mink coat and a red dress slit up to there, and I want to weep. Same reaction when I see the mob at my corner florist (minimum order: $125). You can be sure dinner won’t find me at one of those restaurants that the press has certified as “romantic.”
Like many of you, I suspect, I’m not against romance; my gripe is with pre-programmed, kiss-on-cue, hope-to-get-lucky romance. I’m all for — in no particular order — wild passion, daily heroics, sincere devotion, shared jokes, unspoken communication, dirty e-mail, random presents, not looking over your partner’s shoulder to see who just showed up, candles and music at midnight, knowing how to get it lit in a breeze, private time, monogamy as more than a goal, dancing at concerts, good cheer in the morning, and have I forgotten to mention wild passion?