This morning, I began to miss the good old days – where Valentine’s day meant sugar and valentines from every single one of your classmates (it was mandated in our school so that people like Needy Nelly and Stinky Stanley didn’t get snubbed). I miss grade school because the same formula always resulted in a pink and red, candy-hazed day that left me floating on air. The day before the big “V”, your whole class would go to town on an old cardboard box (preferably a Doc Marten box to look cool) and make a mailbox full of hearts, which would the next day be filled the brim with Barbies, Disney characters, and Power Rangers wishing you a “Happy Valentine’s Day!”. After receiving all your valentines, you’d huddle together with your girlfriends, trying to figure out if that squiggle next to latest crush Brian F.’s name meant that he had a crush on you or if the kid who smelled like fish thought were “the one” because he sent you a Mickey Mouse valentine instead of a Goofy one. Then, you’d consume lots and lots and lots of sugar in the form of “room mom” homemade cupcakes, lollipops shaped like hearts and Hershey kisses.
After witnessing my first ever workplace Valentine’s Day, I’ve decided that grade school V Day’s are a lot like work. Because like grade school, the workplace is awkward and there are boundaries to which you can express your love (or you’ll be slapped with a lawsuit). For example, I have received from my co-workers the following items: a hand-me-down jewelry box, a tube of Dermalogica Treatment Foundation, a piece of chocolate, two candy hearts asking me to marry them, and a card with a dog on the front. Like grade school, I analyzed over the “Marry Me?” hearts. Does he want to marry me? Or is he kidding? I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s already married. Remind me to ask around the office.
And just like grade school some of my presents were odd like the hand-me-down jewelry box and the foundation, but I chalk that up to me pressuring my best office friend (who I must add is pushing fifty and gay) to get me flowers and this is what he stole from his roommate before he got to work. Thanks, really means a lot (said with dripping sarcasm).
But next year, could someone please send me something? I’ll even take a fruit basket. I’ll admit, the competitiveness has turned me into a desperate school girl at a seventh grade dance (material stolen from Dane Cook since I am brain dead from all my back-to-back meetings).