I hate Valentines Day with a passion that rivals my love for all things for crafty. As far as I'm concerned, I think it should be taken out behind the shed and summarily shot. I could blame this on being lonely for years or the commercialism of the day or that my mother consistently impressed upon me the true meaning of the day by constantly calling it VD Day (that's Venereal Disease Day for the uninitiated).
But despite all the crap and disappointment that always surrounded the day for me, sometime when I was young enough to understand that Valentines was a Thing and that if you were special, you'd get stuff, I found that stuff started coming for me.
Usually it was a box of chocolates. Sometimes just a card. I would wake up and find that my Valentine had left me something special. And I loved it.
It meant that going through the rest of my day, which was usually an emotional roller coaster of hope and crushed dreams, was actually bearable. Because no matter which boy failed to notice me, much less give me a token of their undying affection, I already knew that somebody loved me. All through my life, my Valentine let me know that I wasn't alone.
A couple of years ago, the cards stopped. I was disappointed at first, but it occurred to me recently, that actually it was perfect.
You see, my Valentine waited until his message had sunk in. When his tokens stopped, I got it. I was finally in a committed and happy relationship. And I was starting to believe. I had finally come to realize that I could walk with my head held high because not only did someone love me, but I was worth loving.
It took me a really long time, but I get it. I don't know that I would have made it through some of the worst days without his encouragement.
So thank you, Valentine, from the bottom of my heart for making all those wretched VD Days livable with.
I love you, Dad.