Here’s comes Valentine’s Day again, ready to roll over us like a perfumed boulder.
Why do women need yet another holiday? They already own every holiday. Christmas is hers. It’s not about Jesus. Jesus wouldn’t change the locks for getting him the wrong tea set (“This is the Siam Time for Tea Collection. I wanted the Siam Tyme for Tea Collection. Can’t you do anything right?!”) .
Your anniversary? Try her anniversary. No man cares about marking the day you two bound the Gordian Knot. But botch the protocol on the paper, silver, or turducken wedding anniversary and you’re facing 364 days in Hell before you have a chance to make it up (so much for “it’s the thought that counts”).
Mother’s Day also looms infinitely larger in the public consciousness than Father’s Day. Compare the running joke of dad’s crappy Father’s Day ties to the guilt-impelling commercials about what you owe mom on Mother’s Day. Even Earth Day makes reference to the sanctity of a “Mother” Earth. The holiday calendar has enough estrogen coursing through it to halt the menopause of a small nation.
With holidays, the stakes are only high for men. If a chick bungles your birthday (the closest thing men get to a holiday), she can easily slither out of it. No matter how long you have been together, she always gets the leeway of a Denny’s waitress on her first day. There is always some reason why the blunder should be forgiven: “Oh, well she already does [insert thing she never does] every other day of the year, so why does today matter?”
Needless to say this slack is not reciprocated to men planning holidays for women. Just try saying, “I’m tortured by your gimpy work anecdotes 364 days a year, so if I happen to nod off for a second at this stupidly pricey bistro I’m paying for to ‘celebrate’ the day I surrendered to a lifetime of your fun-smothering observations, so be it.”
Enjoy your VD.