Valentine’s Day—the holiday everyone loves to hate—seems to have gotten blown out of proportion. I’ve never really cared much about Valentine’s Day traditions. To me it has always been an occasion to brand the backsides of conversation hearts with Tourette comments such as “Bend over” or “Faked it”, or receive yet another pair of Valentine’s socks from my mom. I still give out store bought Valentines with messages like “You’re a rock star” or “I choo-choo-choose you”, although they’re hard to find in these parts. But as for the candy-and-flowers-Valentine’s-Day that is sold next to the SpongeBob valentines, I’ve never really done that whole thing.

Ok that’s not true. A few years ago I asked AssRay if he would get me the Russell Stover’s special Elvis heart-shaped box of chocolates. And once, my beau and I went to an Italian restaurant near the Eiffel Tower, where they put roses on the plates and gave us sparkly red wine to drink. That was also the only Valentine’s Day in my life where I had multiple boyfriends.

But I have never been one to pout if I don’t have something romantic to do. To me that is not the point. Not being Chinese has not made me bitter against the Chinese New Year. Not being Jewish does not keep me from enjoying the Seder wine and not being in love doesn’t make me rage against Valentine’s Day. I don’t view it as being any more “exclusive” than any other holiday. After all, all holidays were all invented to construct an identity that opposes certain groups of people to others, be it religious divisions or national ones. And love is, after all, more universal than Santa Claus or Guy Fawkes or the Bastille.

I also think that with T minus 2 months until the big W for me, the idea of a holiday that encourages me to turn inward on my couple doesn’t seem all that bad. Because if you are against the shimmery, glittery exterior of Valentine’s Day, it pales in comparison to all of the bullshit that surrounds wedding planning, where the magazines and Web sites and books tell you that, as a woman, you should have been dreaming about this day your whole life. That you need to be incredibly anal retentive about the details—start planning before you’re engaged, pay that $20 a piece for white chair covers, make your bridesmaids track down some obscure colored shoe with a heel of exactly 2 1/4 inches. It is not about love or the couple. It is about taking advantage of the weight of the event and the in-family tensions it causes to make people buy shit in the name of “etiquette”. This is a crime. And for me, personally, caught in the midst of mother-in-law tears and dressmakers guilt, chastising me for not starting my dress search shortly after puberty, it may not be a bad idea this year to take some time with AssRay to be in love. We hardly get to do this with our crazy lives. No, it probably won’t be dinner and candy (unless there exists a heart-shaped box of chocolates with Johnny Hallyday’s face on it.) Nor will it be some kind of planned statement against the “institution”. It will be simply about love—be it a champagne tasting with friends followed by Ethiopian food, or frozen dinners and a dubbed movie, or maybe a little weekend excursion.

So bash the commercialization of the holiday and the tackiness of so many unoriginal couples. But don’t forget the tackiness of self-pity and rage.

It seems curious to me that a holiday that, at its base, is about love and happiness, can garner so much hatred.

If I could, I would give each and everyone of you a conversation heart that said “I love you like pie”

(Reverse side: “Eat me”)