Talk about guilt. The guys who still seek to impress send huge, ridiculously priced floral arrangements to their significant others at work. The co-workers of those women who might receive a plant or a smaller arrangement whine to their guys that so-and-so got a really really big arrangement. [Insert pout here. With attitude.] They can’t win. Next year, they try harder. And FTD smiles.
Talk about tacky. The cards are horrendous. They are either sappy-sweet, predictably comical, or, worst of all, pseudo-erotic. Funny thing is, I laugh at the “serious” cards more than the “funny” ones. The stores put out teddy bears holding flowers, coffee mugs holding nasty-ass candy, and really, I mean really bad lingerie. Have you strolled through the lingerie section of your major discount chains around that time? Dear, dear Lord.
And balloons. Nothing says “I love you” better than mylar, huh?
Valentines Day, when we were kids, was kinda cute. Back in the day, before we had to have gender-neutral, politically correct valentines (one per child please, don’t leave anyone out), the valentine swap was a blast. You knew where you stood. We turned shoe boxes into elaborate mailboxes and wondered all day how many valentines would be in there. We ate heart-shaped cookies and red punch and giggled.
But we were six.