Be My Valentine?

Valentine’s Day, that pseudo-holiday on which we pay homage to romantic love and racy underwear, is once again upon us. In case you didn’t know, Valentine’s Day is named after a 3rd century bishop who was beheaded by Roman Emperor Claudius II for secretly conducting weddings against the emperor’s wishes. It seems that Claudius believed that unmarried men made better soldiers, therefore he forbade marriage between young people.

In defiance of this mandate, Bishop Valentine secretly performed wedding ceremonies in a drive-thru chapel while dressed as Elvis. Valentine was arrested and, while in prison, managed to fall in love with his jailer’s daughter. Before the ultimate shave, he sent his beloved a Hallmark greeting card on which he wrote: “Please bring me a metallic neck brace at your earliest convenience. Love, Your Valentine.” Thus, our modern celebration of love was born.

I’m sure Saint Valentine would have been proud to know that we celebrate love in his name with gifts of filmy lingerie, overpriced floral arrangements and bad chocolate. Valentine’s Day pisses me off. Maybe I’m just angry because once again this year I have no one for whom to buy roses or embarrassing underwear. And that’s too bad, because I’m basically a romantic at heart. I still believe in abiding love, the mystical union of souls, and Thor, god of thunder.

I never thought I’d still be single in my mid-forties. I always figured that by now I’d be married and probably have a divorce or two under my belt, but that’s not the case. And statistically speaking, pretty soon I’ll have a better chance of personally finding Osama bin Laden than finding a mate. And to be honest, I’d rather have the reward money.

My long-married friends assure me I’m not missing much by being single. And a recent study shows that the longer couples are together, the more annoying they find each other to be. That is, until they get older. Perhaps all those brain cells saying sayonara make each person forget how annoying the other is.

I’m not sure why I’m still unattached. Oh sure, I've had good relationships, but have yet to break the three-year longevity mark. So every week I scan the online personals looking for my ideal woman. Unfortunately, ads from Nordic beauties with Ph.D.s in Kama Sutra studies seeking short, sensitive, bald men are rare. My friends accuse me of being too picky, but my standards have declined in recent years. Now all I really demand is a woman with fewer than 25 body piercings who I sweep into my arms without herniating something.

Why is finding love is so difficult? The painful, uncertain ritual of modern dating has spawned a cottage industry of books on how to find a mate... and once you’ve found one, how to avoid killing him or her. Previous generations didn’t need dating services or personal ads or books to tell them how to find someone. Perhaps that’s because they didn’t harbor the same unrealistic expectations of love—and happiness in general—that we do.

I have an old photograph of my maternal grandparents standing in front of their ramshackle farmhouse, squinting in the harsh sunlight, hands clasped stiffly in front of them, looking as happy as pallbearers. Since they both look like John Wayne, I assume my grandmother is the one wearing the dress. Whenever I feel lonely I look at this picture and celibacy doesn’t seem so bad. But who knows—maybe my grandparents really were in love. Because maybe real love, once all the heavy breathing subsides, is in essence something as difficult and demanding as my grandparents’ lives, more akin to a hardy weed than a rose. Try putting that on a greeting card.

Despite all my bitching, I really do have a soft spot for Valentine’s Day and the edible panties that sometimes go with it. Call me a hopeless romantic, if you will.

And if you happen to be single, female and reasonably attractive, just call me.

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