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There are some people in this world who become "Seasonally depressed" over the period between Thanksgiving and New Years Day. Others become apoplectic over Halloween. A precious few even grow weary of celebrating Groundhog Day, for some reason. Then there’s me; like many other people in this world, I have a distinct dread/disdain/scorn for Valentine’s Day.

Every year, right after the Super Bowl, I become a cynic. I mock the overhyped ads for diamonds, "romantic getaways", and floral arrangements. I sneer at every love song I hear over the radio. I plot another way to convince Ted Kazynski to send a "special package" to Hallmark ("Hey Ted, they make the cards on computers now. Ain’t that a kick in the head? Here’s the address") And somewhere around February 13, I just want to crawl into my bed, pull the covers over my head and wait until the party is over for everyone else.

What was it that drove me to this anti-Valentine bias? Was it the consistently empty Valentines envelope I made year after year in elementary school? Was it the rejection I later felt as yet another girl I liked made time with yet another guy who shouldn’t be drawing such a great girl into his no-good embrace? Actually, I think I have found the cause of my anti-valentinism, and the event didn’t even happen on February 14.

I was in fifth grade, and had my first crush on someone. Her name was Gwen, and the reason I liked her was because she looked like a girl I had started to like the previous year, before my family moved from Georgia to North Carolina. They both had dirty blond hair, wore glasses, and had sat next to me in class. Looking back, however, Gwen was a bit cruel to me. She would call me names and get the other kids to join in with her. Nevertheless, I still thought she was the best girl in the world.

One day, I was watching an ABC after-school special; I think it was called "My Mom’s Having a Baby". In it, a father tries to help his kids understand how babies are made. AS he explains, cartoons show the process, or as much as ABC felt it could show kids in the afternoon without being yanked by the FCC. Looking back, it was a rather poor way to explain the reproductive process:

"JOHNNY": How does the baby get in Mom’s belly, dad?

(cue tender, minor-key piano music)

DAD: Well, "Johnny", first a mom and dad come together and love one another very much.

(cut to animation of two vaguely peach-colored rectangles coming together)

DAD (continuing): Then, the mom and dad rub against one another, and the man sends his seed into the mom.

(ANIMATION: a happy-face blue seed which looks vaguely like a sperm cell crosses from one conjoined rectangle to the other, where it bumps against a pink egg-shaped… er, egg.)

DAD (droning on): The seed finally comes to the egg and they join together. The baby begins to grow, and the mom and dad lie back on the bed, smoking cigarettes and questioning the nature of mankind.

After watching this, I felt empowered! The greatest secret of the universe had been revealed to me, and I was fully prepared to inform the public of my discovery.

The next day, during lunch, I let my friends know of my new-found knowledge, and they seemed… a bit underwhelmed. My friend Danny looked at me and asked "Are you gonna finish your cake?"

A couple of hours later, at recess, Gwen came up to me and pulled me off the playground. We walked to a nearby tree and sat down. She looked me in the eyes and said "I hear you know how to make babies. Would you show me how?" My heart jumped into my throat, and in my most masculine 10-year old voice I stammered "Sure."

I pulled back the right sleeves of our shirts and calmly explained the breeding process as I had heard it on TV the previous day. Took my forearm and gently rubbed it against hers. "How long does it take?" she asked.

"Just a few seconds", I purred, sure that we would be holding hands on the bus trip home that afternoon. After about 20 seconds of hot preteen action, I drew my arm away and proudly exclaimed "It’s done."

Gwen looked at me with wondering eyes, then looked down at her arm. She calmly stood up, adjusted the sleeve of her sweater back down, and broke off running toward the playground screaming "HEY EVERYBODY, I’M PREGNANT!!!"

Now that I think about it, maybe that has more to do with my sense of intimidation in the romantic company of women than my disdain of Valentine’s Day. I guess I should take it up with my therapist.

Ó MM Clint McGuire