I didn’t post last week, never quite got around to it. It was my birthday as it happens and my step-daughter came to visit. It was the first time she saw me in my new natural habitat and we had a nice visit, lunching at The House of Wine.
Having my birthday on Valentine’s Day was always something of a mixed blessing. My parents played the heart theme to the hilt. I had hearts on my pajamas, heart-shaped pillows on my bed, heart-shaped rings on my fingers. After a while, corresponding with my progression into adolescence, it got to be a bit much. Then there were the strangers’ reactions whenever I had to give my birth date. “Your birthday is on Valentine’s Day? Aw, that’s so sweet!” With typical adolescent grouchiness I vowed that someday I would live somewhere where Valentine’s Day did not exist.
That of course came to pass when I moved to Israel. Nothing connected, however tangentially, with any Christian saint is officially sanctioned here. Under the chapter heading of Be Careful What You Wish For, I found I missed the sweet Valentine birthday specialness. I missed the ownership, the feeling that Valentine’s Day belonged to me in a way that it didn’t to most other people. I missed the chocolate hearts.
Not to worry, Valentine’s Day has been making a grassroots appearance over the last decade or so. This has been spurred I think by the vast marketing opportunity the holiday represents. Flowers, chocolates, romantic restaurant dinners, pieces of jewelry – the potential is too good to pass up. So if the trend continues, I may find myself back where I started. But this time without the grouchiness.
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