Last Sunday was the first Valentines Day that I enjoyed. It was not that I had a lover who swept in off a cloud to feed me Barolo and spin me in the streets. Nor was it that I closed my eyes to it, side-stepping the embraces on the sap-drenched sidewalks. It was the antics associated with Valentines Day that were entertaining to me. It wasn’t just another Sunday; it was Sunday Plus.

I enjoyed watching more people hold hands, as if they were in the closet before. I enjoyed catching more people stealing kisses. First kisses, 1000th kisses, hesitant kisses, unwanted kisses. I enjoyed flustered attempts at people quickly grabbing flowers on their way home from the gym, sweaty and forgetful. I enjoyed that an otherwise empty bar on Sunday was full of mimosa-ed souls laughing, the DJ turning up the volume to club levels even though it was only 3pm. I enjoyed watching women primp nervously in a hurry, and men donning collars for the first time in months. My upstairs neighbors even decided to share the VDay love by performing a duet, their bed frame on percussion.

Your thoughts on VDay were a self-actualization of your association, but so many others give the same groveling stories about how they hate the day. I can never tell if their hatred is (a) pent up anger about VDays gone wrong (or right?) in the past (b) sadness because they were alone or (b) an excuse to get out of planning something because in reality they did want a magical VDay.

This year, however, I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted so badly tell my loathing friend, “Fine, hate the day, but just realize your hatred means giving in to the unauthorized power of Valentines Day.” I also didn’t want to stir up what I thought was such a rare peace on an otherwise a blasted day, so I just smiled.

For the record, I would have loved the flowers, because they were a gift. Instead, I enjoyed not having a lover to please, and the mystery that someday I could, without the pressure of the Russell Stover.