February 14 is supposed to be a day to celebrate love. Too bad our writers don't love it. Why?
Not Enough Privacy by Sarah Hepola

It's hard to find a holiday more disparaged than Valentine's Day. For today's cynical postromantics, February 14 has turned into a sour little celebration of self-pity, complete with anti-Valentine's Day parties and general grousing. Not that I blame them, really: Over the years, Valentine's Day has brought me little but anxiety and chin pimples. It doesn't matter whether or not I'm in a relationship; it's the kind of saccharine holiday that makes me want to find two people in love, congratulate them on their success, and crack an egg over their stupid coneheads. But it doesn't have to be like this. See, the problem with Valentine's isn't the holiday itself. (What's wrong with setting aside one day a year to honor romance? Most of us spend the other 364 burning it in effigy.) The problem is the way we celebrate it. It's too public, too vulgar for such an emotion as love. Valentine's Day is something to keep behind closed doors, between two consenting adults. Wanna celebrate your special romance this Valentine's Day? I applaud you. I encourage you. Now get a room already.

Like many neuroses, my problems with Valentine's Day began in high school. Charities like Amnesty International raised money hawking $1 carnations that would be delivered to recipients in homeroom. The idea was to flaunt them all day in your lapels and hair, a metric of your popularity, attractiveness, and worth. For shy, bookish girls like me, this was a special kind of torture, like being forced to pace the halls with your weight pinned to your chest. (Let's hope Amnesty at least freed a few pistol-whipped Albanians for all the suburban angst this ritual caused.) Usually, I got one lousy carnation from my best friend - a sweet gesture, but a little like being asked to the prom by your older cousin. Miraculously, I did get a high school boyfriend, and eagerly awaited mid-February, although my expectations dissolved when he decided carnations were stupid and merely showed up at my house that afternoon with a Gap gift certificate. Oh, well.