Valentines Day is not what I would call my best holiday. I’m either single, have a boyfriend that forgets about it or decides to make some grand stand against the day. “Valentine’s is dumb. What a stupid thing to celebrate.” Blah. Blah. Blah. Yes, but when St. Patrick’s Day comes along he’ll gladly put on a green top hat, some beads and shoot jager bombs all night like they’re going out of style. Just get me a $1.99 rose from the gas station and some dinner. That’s all. I don’t think that’s asking a lot. But, no. The day usually begins with high hopes and ends with me on the couch watching Law and Order reruns.
My problems with Valentine’s Day began long ago in a land far away. It was the seventh grade, which is the worst grade ever. You are either a late bloomer or early bloomer and neither is a great place to be. I was not the most popular of girls, but I wasn’t the least. The place of being unnoticed was where I occupied my time. That was fine. Of course popularity meant something to me, but I never let it bother me. Not until Valentine’s Day.
On Valentine’s, at my school, they waited until the last class to let you see the gifts delivered to you. The office workers would bring in whatever was sent to you and place it against the wall. How horrible. You have a whole building full of low self-esteemed gawky kids and then make them wait all day to see if someone liked them enough to spend fifteen bucks for a balloon to be delivered. It’s just horrible.
I wasn’t really expecting anything. There was no boyfriend of any sort. I had just started wearing makeup, and that wasn’t going exceptionally well (throughout most of my seventh grade year I looked like a white ghost with really flushed cheeks), and I was still determined to make spiral perms work therefore my hair resembled that of a poodle. Plus you can go ahead and put me in that late bloomer category I spoke of earlier. But as they were carrying all the red, pink and heart shaped items in the room I couldn’t help but to hope at least one thing would be for me. It could be from some secret admirer, probably someone named Antonio with an accent (doesn’t matter which accent, any would do) that was desperately in love with me and bought out the flower shop for me. I daydreamed a lot in Jr. High.
Finally, after an hour of staring at all the Valentine gifts lined up against the wall of class, the bell rang. I coolly walked over to the gifts and searched for my name. And it was the most incredible thing that ever was. There wasn’t just one, two or three items with my name on it, there were multiple items with my name on it: Angela D. Clark. It was extraordinary. There were roses, flowers, candy, balloons, and a giant transparent balloon with a stuffed bear inside surrounded by pink tissue and glitter. I was elated. Cloud nine had nothing on the happiness I felt when I saw my name on the outside of those envelopes. I quickly gathered the items and floated down the hall to my locker. I had trouble carrying all my gifts, there were so many. I happily struggled with them. Gleefully I took random sniffs of the flowers and my imagination ran with who could have sent me so many treasures. My feet were barely touching the floor. There was no stopping the smile of pure joy on my face. I had arrived. This was my moment.
And it was at that moment that I notice the gang of girls walking towards me with full determination. The gang was lead by the other Angela D. Clark. Yes, there were two of us, only different by our middle names with the same initials. We were in the same grade and mix ups between us were common.
She was Pentecostal with a daily uniform of waist length hair and ankle length skirts. They walked toward me in what seemed like slow motion, their eyes locked with mine, waist length hair swaying, ankle length skirts swishing. I knew. I knew the day was about to end badly. I couldn’t move.
“Uh, hey Angela. I think you got some of my gifts,” Pentecostal Angela said with a smirk. And before I could let out my meek “oh”, she and her gang started grabbing items from my hands, checking the cards and giving nods of confirmation to one another. It was like the scene in Cinderella when the stepsisters realize that Cinderella’s dress is made from their scraps. They start ripping the dress apart screaming “My sash!”, “My beads!” That’s how it felt. “My flowers!”, “My candy!”, “My giant transparent balloon with the teddy bear in it surrounded by pink tissue and glitter!”
Finally, Pentecostal Angela and her gang were done tearing the spirit of Valentine’s Day from my arms. “Thanks, Angela. Happy Valentine’s Day!”, she called as she and her gang left with an armful of what were formerly my gifts, dreams, and hopes of what could have been the best Valentine’s ever. There I was standing in the hallway, mouth open in disbelief of the recent event, holding the one gift that remained mine. A lone balloon with a teddy bear on it holding a candy heart that read ‘Have A Heartfelt Day’. The card attached read, ‘To: Angela, Love Mom’. I could hear cloud nine laughing in mockery of me.
This experience, along with my other unsuccessful Valentine’s, could have made me calloused and bitter about this holiday of love and romance. It could have made me into one of those angry women that roll their eyes and curse at happy couples and drink heavily on the holiday. But, it does not. I still hold on to hope of having a successful holiday of romance. Some great romantic experience that every time February 14 comes around, will make me smile in remembrance. Therefore, I smile at those happy couples and tend not to drink any more heavily than I do on a normal day in February. My Happy Valentine’s will happen. $1.99 rose and all.
oh geez I rode the school bus with that girl, I even vaguely remember this happening
ReplyDeletethat girl was horrid