Recalling Valentine's Days past, confused by the present

Long ago, in the time of troll dolls, slap bracelets and pogs, Valentine's Day was a celebration for all. Like assemblies and fire drills, it was an excuse to stop doing long division and like birthdays and Halloween, an excuse to eat the sweets your parents claimed would rot your teeth.

We had a party in class with candy hearts, frosted cupcakes, and chocolates in red crinkly wrappers. We learned to fold paper in half to cut out hearts that were, if not perfect, perfectly symmetrical. We had paper bags with our names in glitter and brought in, perhaps against our will, Ducktales, Rescue Rangers or Flintstones cards for all the other kids ("But Mooooom, Jeffrey picks his noooooose!").

Things are different now.

Never mind that I've cemented my babysitting charges' belief in my archaism by using the word "pog" ("Julie, do you mean DOG?"). For the past couple weeks, in anticipation of the holiday, a link on my friend Jen's AIM profile has featured a giggling pink teddy bear that meets one of three fates. She cuts her tongue on a card and bleeds to death, she is speared with a dozen Cupid's arrows and collapses, or she sneezes into a bouquet of flowers and explodes. This charming little sequence is entitled "What I really think about Valentine's Day." Where did it all go wrong?

While everyone used to get paper valentines and crumbly hearts that said "Be Mine," today one friend will get a $1000 Tiffany bracelet from her boyfriend, while another will receive her monthly bill from PNC. One will reap Crush cans while another will — in wholehearted support, no doubt — crush some cans. One will open a bottle of red wine; another may drink her sorrows away. And so on. Besides creating a disturbingly pink-and-red world, Valentine's Day reinforces capitalism's lesson: bigger winners, bitter losers.

Valentine's Day isn't a holiday we can ignore, like National Pie Day (Jan. 23) or National Mustard Day (Aug. 3). Flowers, candy, jewelry. Pink bagels, glittering boxers, heart-shaped Altoid cases. Everywhere you turn, the message is clear: if you're not buying that fluorescent pink necktie or six foot chocolate bunny, you're going to die alone.

Last night I spoke to my friend Josh, who is impatiently single at William and Mary. The conversation went something like this:

Josh: "These exploitative moneymaking schemes alienate those of us who don't participate. I want someone to buy something for, too!"

Julie: "Or yet another reason to fill Hallmark's coffers for gems like 'You bring out the lovey-wuvvy in me.' And what about your mother?"

Josh: "They're selling flavored-condomgrams here. Should I send her one of those?"

Julie: "Yeah, forget the clichéd rose fundraisers."

Josh: "I just don't want to be left out of the commercialism."

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There's a reason people are bitter on this day. If someone wants to laud pies or mustard, good for him! What does that mean beyond an appreciation for food? But, for many, the ability to celebrate Valentine's Day means everything. A person's very worth and lovability are embodied in that sonnet, that serenade, those lemon ganaches in milk chocolate.

The logic is astonishing.

So what are singles to do? You can be crabby like Jen and take it out on a little pink teddy bear. You can be generous like Josh and contribute to a student organization. You can be nostalgic like me and buy a box of Winnie-the-Pooh Valentines.

And if all else fails, Hoodie Hoo! Day is just six days away.

Julie Park is a sophomore from Wayne, N.J.