It’s that time of year. We’re a quarter of the way into spring semester, our New Year’s resolutions are long forgotten and Cupid is at it again. Yes, it’s true — Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.
Ah, love. According to the Beatles it’s all you need. Romeo and Juliet died for it, but Sarah Bareilles won’t even write you a song about it. I’m just straight up jaded about it. It’s all Tommy’s fault. Who is this Tommy I speak of? Let me enlighten you.
Oh, Tommy — that rosy-cheeked, cotton-candy-eyed hunk of a 5-year-old. Tommy had a Ninja Turtles backpack. His blond hair floated in the breeze every time we played boys chase girls on the blacktop. He was a champion at Pogs and had mastered more than half the alphabet. I had developed a crush on him ever since he romantically mashed a piece of chewing gum into my hair. For a sticky child with skinned knees, this rough-and-tumble boy was just who I needed. He was perfect for me.
It was Feb. 14, 1993. My Little Mermaid backpack was loaded with personalized valentines and candy for my fellow kindergarteners. I spent an hour in the bathroom that morning screaming bloody murder as my mom tamed the tumbleweed on my head into two corkscrew pigtails and secured them with pink scrunchies — man, I loved scrunchies.
I felt like a miniature Disney princess. I trotted into school confident that Tommy was finally going to express his undying devotion for me and ask me to build a house out of blocks with him. I hung my backpack up on the bronze hook by the cubbies, climbed out of my purple snowsuit and made my way over to my seat. Lookin’ fly in my hot pink stir-up pants and heart-print top, I plopped down at my desk and picked my nose while dreaming about our future together. Isis and Tommy sitting in a tree, P-L-A-Y-I-N-G.
The morning was spent singing songs about rain drops being lemon drops, slamming wooden sticks together during music time and cutting hearts out of construction paper and gluing them onto white doilies. Exhausted from arts and crafts, my booger-infested comrades and I hit the blue mats for naptime. All I could think about were the valentines in my bag.
Finally, it was snack time – and everybody knows that snack time on Valentine’s Day means Valen-time. I zipped around the classroom, crisscrossing paths with my classmates as we all shoved those prized tokens of affection into each other’s festive paper bags. There were Rainbow Brite valentines, Power Rangers valentines, Aladdin valentines with lollipops going through the middle, sparkly Barbie valentines, Batman valentines, Mighty Ducks valentines and more. It was a bona fide love-fest. I gave Tommy five extra Sweet-Tarts, sure that I would steal his heart. He gave me a Michael Jordan valentine. He wanted me.
After Valen-time, we were free to play as we wanted. I spotted my beloved by the counting area and made my way over to count some sugar cubes.
“Hi Tommy, can I play?” I asked.
He scowled, “Girls stink.”
He totally wanted me. I spotted the sugar cube box on top of the bookshelf and reached for it. Just so you know, I’ve never been the tallest person around. Sometimes even the cups in the dining hall are stacked up high against the wall and out of my reach. Though the sugar cubes were only three feet high for us kindergarteners, my chubby little fingers still fumbled as I stood on my tippy-toes. I just couldn’t reach.
“You’re short,” I heard somebody say behind me.
It couldn’t be — had Tommy just called me short?! After all the candy I gave him, this was unbelievable. So I did what any self-respecting two-foot-tall 5-year-old girl would do in the face of such heartbreak — I whipped around and clocked Tommy square in the face.
His face contorted in agony as his three-foot frame fell backwards and his nose began to gush blood. I shut him up. Mrs. McCarthy ran over to find me standing triumphantly over an unconscious 5-year-old. I was the Rocky Balboa of unrequited love. The next day, my parents came in for a conference, but I never got more than a stern slap on the wrist.
The next year, Tommy moved away, and I never heard from him again. I was over him anyway. Now, 15 Valentine’s Days later, I’ve reflected on my actions that fateful holiday and admit I may have overreacted. So Tommy, if you’re out there, call me. I promise I’ll be nicer this time.
Moral of the story: Valentine’s Day is lame sauce. So if you’re jaded like I am about this notoriously Hallmark holiday, here are some Valentine’s Day alternatives:
Celebrate something else that St. Valentine is the patron saint of, such as fainting, bee keepers, the Plague or travelers.
Play a fun little game called “Who Got the Better Deal?” You and a pal simply take a seat in a public place, pick out couples as they stroll by and — well, you get the idea.
YouTube “ABCs of Love,” a hilarious cyber-valentine that won’t make you bitter.
Write a list of affirmations about yourself. Include things such as “I walk at a reasonable pace down crowded hallways,” “I moisturize” or “I smell nice.”
Whatever it is you do on Valentine’s Day, enjoy yourself — really. Love is the rhythm of this song we call life, rock out to it. Just make sure you don’t put all of your sugar cubes in one basket. Or I’ll punch you.
Isis Madrid, a junior in the College of Communication, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at [email protected].