Valentine's Day is a sneaky predatory holiday.

In theory, I want to embrace a national day dedicated to love and romance, but alas, I just don't have the heart for it. I know I should love February 14th because I am a woman and the world tells me I should. But Vogue, The Olsen twins and my waistline tell me I shouldn't.

Because the older I get, the more I realize that Valentine's Day preys on my two most irrational fears as a woman: getting fat and not being loved because I'm fat.

Traditional Valentine's Day gifts do little to alleviate these negative thoughts. My husband is in a lose-lose more position, and I want him to know that intellectually, I recognize this, and I am truly sorry. Emotionally, however, too damned bad. You had better figure it out.

The conversation will most likely go one of two ways on the subject of chocolate. If he brings home a big gold box, I'll scream, "Why did you bring me this? You know I've been on a diet since 1986!" Or, if he fails to buy me any, "I knew it. You think I'm fat."

I realize this is unfair.

And if he should present me with some lacy unmentionables? Yes, again, I will find offense. If he should pick out a size too small, I will again be hurt as only we women can, and I will brood for years over it thinking he thinks I'm fat. I will assume he is hinting that I should fit into it. If he selects one too large, I will be convinced he sees me as the size of a house and I will brood about it for years thinking he thinks I'm fat. But if he picks my real size? I will be absolutely horrified, and then brood about for years thinking he thinks I'm fat.

Dinner out seems like a good plan, doesn't it? Of course not. Because we will no doubt dine at an extravagant restaurant where I will then feel obligated to fit into a ridiculous dress only to eat decadent, high-caloric foods and not really enjoy them because I'll be too self-conscious thinking that he thinks I'm fat.

Perhaps it goes deeper. Maybe I despise this day because I am also a mother, which negates my inherent femininity and renders me the least romantic being on the planet.
As a Mom, I naturally repel romance. It is a survival skill. I do 20 loads of laundry every week--I have used enough dryer sheets in my lifetime to detract any electricity--static or otherwise. My idea of romance these days would be socks picked up off the floor or cleaning the gunk out of the garbage disposal. If you really want to see me swoon, vacuum, and if you unload the dishwasher? I'll wear one of those lacy unmentionables for you. The one that's too small.

And just when I am about to swear off Valentine's Day forever, saving us both a lot of expense, tears and heartache, something as sweet as a candy heart happens and I find myself falling prey to Cupid's arrow once again.

Yesterday, I found a note in my seven year old son's backpack. It was from a girl, and it read, Chase me at recess. I had to smile despite myself, because it was one of the most romantic things I have ever read.

I thought that even though it was from one second grader to another, at 37, that's really all I want for Valentine's Day.

So, Honey, forget the champagne and lingerie. Instead, Chase me at recess.

(If nothing else, I'll work off those chocolate-covered cherries.)

©2008 Tracey Henry

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