In my current dating delirium, I actually almost forgot that my least favorite day of the year is approaching – President’s Day. Just kidding. Yep, it’s true, I hate Valentine’s Day. Always have, always will. When you’re single, Valentine’s Day is a miserable, torturous day. You listen to your friends making their elaborate plans; you watch as they labor over their wardrobe choices, asking your opinion, “Should I wear this dress, what do you think of these heels?” Meanwhile you’re sitting on their bed legs crossed with your chin on your hands envisioning the ratty bathrobe you’re going to be wearing that night, trying to decide if Chunky Monkey will win out over Cookie Dough. If that weren’t enough, every storefront in sight is exploding in pink and red decorations and wherever you look there are bouquets of flowers that won’t have your name on the card.

Don’t get me wrong, I do have some hopeless romantic in me — I just don’t think there should be a holiday marketed to only those who are coupled. In the many legends of how Valentine’s Day came to be, the most common one is that St. Valentine fell in love with a young girl while he was in prison and wrote her a love letter before his death, signing it “from your Valentine.” If that’s the case, how in the heck did we go from a one simple sweet letter to a multi-billion dollar industry of over-priced flowers, jam-packed restaurants, uncomfortable lingerie and the extremely strange over-abundance of teddy bears?

I distinctly remember a time when I actually liked Valentine’s Day. I was in the 3rd grade. Remember those cardboard boxes full of little cut-out heart-shaped cards? There was no disappointment involved; you had a list of your classmates’ names and everyone got one, keeping 7 year-old feelings intact. By 5th grade it was all over – the after school at-home count didn’t match the number of kids in your class and utter devastation set in upon the realization you got three less valentines than the girl next to you who had satin ribbons in her pigtails instead of frayed yarn. There has been one constant, however – 38 years later, I still get a box of those stale, powdery conversation hearts from my mother.

On the off-chance that a new relationship has blossomed when the dreaded day rolls around, an inordinate amount of pressure is placed on both you and the poor Romeo who thinks he has to actually spend his life savings on roses that will wilt in 48 hours without even opening. But now that you have this new beau, you can’t help but get sucked into the Valentine vortex. And those same friends who last year offered their half-eaten chocolates and flashed their sparkly stake? They take an acrobatic leap on the bandwagon; “I’m sooo excited that you finally have a date this year! Where is he taking you? You definitely should buy a new outfit!”

So with my current trifecta, I’m actually kind of hoping it’s all too new to warrant any sort of attention to the significance of the day. In fact, I’m choosing to spend the afternoon with a few girlfriends and with any luck will be in a Bloody Mary/Mimosa haze by dinnertime. If in fact the question comes up, what do I do? Do I tell these adorable men that I despise everything Cupid, from his little bow and arrow to his saggy diaper? Do I dare risk these brand-new, seemingly-perfect dalliances with promise for an actual future by admitting my repugnance for that particular ritual of romance?

Maybe I won’t have to. Maybe they won’t even ask. Crap. What if they don’t ask?