Of Valentine's Day and Cooties

TWO minutes was all it took this year to buy my girlfriend a Valentine's Day gift. A call to the florist, my Mastercard number and presto--instant Valentine's Day gift.

Seems kind of silly, doesn't it?

I was the person who was supposed to write this year's article about the hypocrisy of Valentine's Day. Sure, it's true, if you need a holiday to tell your loved ones that you love them, then you probably don't love them enough.

And, of course, the whole commercialism of the holiday is pretty disgusting, too. Even ignoring the fact that Valentine's Day will cost any self-respecting boyfriend or girlfriend upwards of $30 (roses are expensive, you know), the thought of the K-Mart Valentine's Day sale seems about as appropriate as wearing a tie-die shirt to a funeral.

BUT the problem isn't Valentine's Day, itself. Sure, nowadays the holiday has lost most of its meaning, but I remember a time not too long ago in my life when it really was special.

Back then I had this unbelievable crush on the girl who sat in front of me in math class, Wendy Hollocher. Wendy had short light brown hair and a button nose with dimples to match. Her figure wasn't especially noticeable, but then again, not many fourth-graders' were.

Needless to say, I found her far more intriguing than pre-pre-algebra.

Of course, those were the days when liking a girl was not something you ever even mentioned to your friends. Girls were specifically forbidden from the clubhouse, and to admit that you actually liked one, well, that was just begging your friends to say you had the cooties.

So I spent my days in math class fantasizing about Wendy, imagining the two of us doing really neat things like going to a movie or sharing cotton candy at the amusement park (I was only nine, and that really was the extent of my imagination). But I never told her how I felt, for fear of rejection or a big "Blech."

Then Valentine's Day came. You were allowed to like girls on Valentine's Day, and I decided I would "make my move" then.

I came home and informed my mother that it was a matter of life and death that I went to the mall and found the perfect Valentine's gift. I didn't tell Mom why I needed the present, and she graciously pretended not to know.

After three hours at the local shopping center, I still hadn't found it. A music box? Too expensive and showy. A pin? Too cheap and meaningless. Mom was getting impatient and I was running out of alternatives.

Then, as the stores were about to close, I spotted it. A tiny heart-shaped address book, no more than three inches high. It was perfect--not too small, not too big, not too showy, not too insignificant, and it was only $3 (about two weeks' allowance).

I bought it, proud of my choice and excited to give it.

I sauntered into school the next morning, gift in hand. I tucked in my t-shirt, tied my shoelaces, and splashed on a little of Dad's cologne for good luck. I felt very studly.

But when Wendy walked in, I froze. I couldn't utter a word, and when the bell rang at the end of the day, I still had the gift tucked away in my pocket.

In desperation, I waited until she got up to get her coat from the next room. While she was gone, I dropped the phone book in her purse, and ran away.

When Wendy walked out, I followed her, watching as she found the strange trinket in her purse. She looked at it, shrugged and went on her way. I hesitated, then turned back to go home.

I never told Wendy where the book came from, and as the year wore on I lost touch with her. Fourth-graders are pretty fickle, and by the end of elementary school, so I heard, she had run off with some guy on a motorcycle.

But there was something special about that Valentine's Day. It didn't matter that she never knew who gave her the present, or that I never told her how I felt, or that it only cost $3. I was "in love," and I had given Wendy a gift that meant something more than a Mastercard number and a 1-800 phone call.

It's not what FTD would want us to think of as the perfect Valentine's Day, but what the heck do they know. Roses may wilt, but address books--and fourth grade--are forever.