I sat in my seventh grade writing class waiting.  As the teacher discussed bias in writing I stole anxious glances through the tiny window in the center of the metal door that offered a restricted view of the main hall of my school. I took a quick glance at the clock then attempted to focus my attention back to my teacher.  As my last class wound down the big metal door creaked open and everyone’s attention turned to three perky eighth grade girls carrying a bundle of red, white and pink carnations and heart-shaped lollipops.  My heart began to race and I sank down into the wooden seat of my desk.

I don’t know why I was so excited. There was no way I would be getting a flower. I had few friends and no boys interested in me.  I was mostly a quiet bookworm who didn’t spend much time with anyone outside of school. All day I had waited for the last ten minutes of each class, hoping in vain that I might hear my name.

The girls handed the flowers and candy to my teacher and retreated, giggling and indicated to various girls in the room that they had gifts in the bundle. No one sought me out to confirm I had a flower in the bunch.  The classroom began to buzz with excitement as the teacher started flipping open the tags on the flowers.  She smiled and shushed the class so she could handout the Valentine’s gifts.

I sank low into my desk, wringing my hands in my lap hoping against all odds that someone had thought of me.  As she began to read the names, boys and girls hurried to the front of the class to collect their gifts.  Many of the recipients were the same kids who had received flowers in many of my other classes.  About halfway through the pile my teacher looked at me and smiled.  I sank down further in my seat. “Teri,” she said. My heart began pounding as my brain searched for who might have sent me a flower. Bridget? Andrea? I slowly rose from my chair and walked to the front of the class.  I kept my head down, not wanting to see the baffled expressions on my peer’s faces.       I took the pink carnation from my teacher’s hand never lifting my eyes to meet hers. I quickly returned to my seat.  As I sat down, Felipe, a forward on my soccer team tapped me on the shoulder.  I turned to him.  He smiled and asked who had sent me the flower.  I shrugged and opened the tag. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Love Mom.”  I groaned and turned my back to my teammate.  Intrigued he tapped me on the shoulder. “What?” I growled without turning around.  “Who sent you a flower?” he asked. I could hear a mix of amusement and curiosity in his voice.  “My mom,” I mumbled. “Your mom?” he confirmed he had heard me correctly loud enough that a few kids around us looked at me and smirked.  “Shut up!” I hissed. “Okay, jeez.” He responded and sank back in his seat.

I don’t know why my mother would have gone to my school and purchase a flower from my student body fund raiser but she did and I wanted to die.  At least it was the last period of the day so I would head straight to her waiting car after the bell rang.  When class ended I rushed to the car and scrambled into the front seat. I thanked my mother for the flower automatically but she sensed I was embarrassed.  In the next five years I never received another Valentine’s Day flower at school.

For a very long time I just didn’t care about Valentine’s Day.  I had a boyfriend for most of my senior year but still didn’t think about the holiday.  We didn’t buy each other presents. I am not sure it ever occurred to me that we should.

When my son was younger, each year I would by him chocolate and a stuffed animal but as he became older I stopped.  I was acutely aware of the trauma Valentine’s gifts from mom would inflict on a boy of a certain age.  Valentine’s Day became just another day.

For the decade or so I ignored the day.  I didn’t date.  I was not interested in anyone romantically so the day meant little to me.  My first relationship after my long sabbatical from the world ended just a few short weeks before Valentine’s Day several years ago.  I casually dated for a while so another Valentine’s Day passed without a thought.  Little over a year ago, I had started dating “Pretty Boy” and it was the first time I thought about a Valentine’s Day with dinner and flowers.

I hoped with some anxiety I might actually have a Valentine who wasn’t six and hopped up on sugar.  It just didn’t happen.  I received a “Happy Valentine’s Day” text from a bathtub across town occupied by the man I was dating and a bottle of wine. That was Valentine’s Day 2012.

I do love the idea of Valentine’s Day.  I think it is sweet. I wish I had someone to participate in the holiday with.  I just never have.  I don’t hate the day although the more single Valentine’s Days I see the more depressing the day becomes.  I don’t hate the day; I don’t love the day. I have never experienced it the way I imagined it should be.  I simply watch it come and go.