Please Mr Postman! A Humorous Look at Valentine's Day

What is it about St Valentine's Day that makes lovers want to throw secrecy and discretion to the wind and declare to the world, via the national press or even worse, the internet, that "Scrumptious Wumptious Pudding Pie adores Squidgy Widgy Bum? I mean, if you really care for someone, you shouldn't have to wait until 14 February each year to convey your feelings, either in this bizarre manner, or by rushing out and buying a padded heart cushion in sugar-pink polyester, with lace trim and "I Luv U" printed on the front, should you?

Nevertheless, despite the cringe factor of many of these declarations of undying love and unrestrained passion, they are a sign that these people are happily attached, or at least in lust.

I have always considered Valentine's Day to be one of the most emotionally painful days in the year for those who are not romantically involved in one way or another. It is like pouring acid onto a raw wound. Ouch! It feels as though you are under a spotlight, with the rest of the world scoffing at you and saying, ""Nah-na-na-nah-nah! We're having sex and you're not. We might be terminally obnoxious, but at least somebody loves us. Tra-la-la!"

Mind you, there will always be some allegedly "single and loving it" people out there who may regard people such as myself as needy and insecure and who reach for the bucket when they read other lovey-dovey couples' public, smoochy woochy messages.

When I was a single parent, I assumed that the only time I would receive a Valentine's Card would be if I sent one to myself. It used to be the one morning in the year when I was begging the postman to deliver bills or junk mail, just so that he would be seen delivering something (anything - please!) to my door, should any of the neighbours be peeking from behind their drapes at the time. For the postman to bypass my house on Valentine's Day was one of the most shameful experiences ever.

When I was unhappily married, I do confess to having sent a card to myself one year, in a sad and vain attempt to arouse a spark of jealousy in my indifferent, asexual ex-husband. Naturally, it didn't achieve the desired response. In fact, judging by his lopsided sneer, I think he was secretly pleased, because if it meant that I was having an affair, that would leave him free to continue selfishly servicing his own needs; such as sitting glued to the TV and not having to engage in superficial conversation.

However, being a caring, sharing kind of woman, I always presented my ex-husband with a classy Valentine's gift, such as a supermarket's own brand 2" circumference ceramic pig, clutching a gold-wrapped sweetie, which tasted like cooking chocolate. More than generous, I thought, particularly since I was forced to produce a receipt for everything that I bought, so that my magnanimous ex could tally his outgoings at the end of each week. In other words, what was mine was his and what was his was his.

The evenings were the worst part of the day. Not only had the second postal delivery been and gone, together with my final chances of receiving a declaration of everlasting love, but also I knew that all the still-in-love, attached couples in the world would be planning their candlelit dinner à deux at some fancy French restaurant. Naturally, this wouldn't be just any romantic meal, but one during the course of which an engagement or eternity ring would be presented, together with a pair of flight tickets to an impossibly romantic European city.

All this after a day of running around meadows in slow motion, dressed in flimsy, transparent outfits, or floating down a sunlit river in a rowing boat, whilst sipping champagne. Yes, yes, I know that this is England and the temperature is inevitably sub-zero, meaning only an idiot would venture out wearing anything less than thermals and a 50 tog jacket in case their extremities dropped off (what a shame), but when you are unattached, rationality doesn't enter the equation.

The other depressing factor, when I was still legally attached to my abovementioned ex, was that it meant that I was unlikely to receive any cards from secret admirers, on the assumption that because I was married, I was definitely a no-go area. In reality, I was, for all intents and purposes, young, free and very much single. I wanted to run around town with a large sign attached to me saying, "I'm available. The ring on the third finger of my left hand is just pretend. This is just a practice relationship"

Of course, on the years when the postman delivered zilch, I consoled myself by thinking that the only reason I hadn't received any cards was because my secret admirer(s) didn't know my address. Well, you have to have a positive outlook don't you?

Tradition states that you are not supposed to reveal your identity on any Valentine's card that you send. Huh! Forget that! If I have spent a small fortune on an overpriced bit of card with a sloppy rhyme on it, I want the object of my desire to know how much I value them. Besides, what is the point of keeping your true identity a secret and denying yourself the opportunity of a potentially satisfying liaison with the person of your dreams?

I have received several anonymous cards in the past and, to this day, I do not know whom most of them were from. I found this intensely frustrating at the time, particularly when I was single, available and pining for love and romance. What a missed opportunity on the part of my clandestine admirer; passing up the chance of a romantic encounter with this witty, charming and intelligent blonde who has a chest that could double as ear muffs!

I am happy to say that since finding my knight in shining armour, I no longer view Valentine's Day with dread. I know that I am guaranteed a cute card with a Forever Friends' bear on the front, a bunch of flowers that last at least a week and a box of deliciously, mood-enhancing chocolates, that last a mere five minutes.

I can proudly walk down the street with a genuine smile on my face, not one of those forced, coathanger grins that I used to sport many years ago, to convey the impression that the postman had suffered back strain delivering the sack of Valentine's cards to my door.

However, irrespective of how much my partner and I love each other, there's no way that we would admit to anyone that Spongy Belly loves Sweet Cheeks…

About the Author
Jan Andersen of Mothers Over 40