No one knows.
And we bad mouth the commercialism. The murder of a gagillian long stemmed innocent roses all for a paradoxical cause of, oh, don't get me anything, but God help you if you don't get me anything.
And people argue, well, I love you and I don't need a holiday to make me show it.
And women say, We'll, I don't need him to spend on me, I know he loves me.
First, let's talk about men. We don't remember things like, well, anything. Seriously do you think that men would suddenly send flowers with a note that said, I thought of you today, if there wasn't a national holiday reminding them? We're men! If you want flowers, you best tell us. We're more likely to get you a coupon book for oil changes for your car than chocolate.
And women? Oh, let's go over that. The whole, well, don't get me anything.
Here's the scenario: Your at work in your cubical and you hear a commotion by the door. You pop up like Meerkats peering over the sea of cubicles and there is this beautiful flower arrangement of movie theater velvet rope red roses nestled by baby breath white dots being carried by some harried flower guy navigating his way through the maze of cubicles. Everyone is watching, guys too, waiting to see where it goes.
And there is that moment, that spark of hope that leaves a dripping cold spot in your soul when it goes to someone else. You're not special. In fact, you told him not to get you anything and the slovenly clod probably spent in on beer that he's not going to share, but you're an independent woman and you can buy your own damn beer and how needs him anyway? You've got a personal massager and a storehouse of D-Cells and he can just sleep on the couch for the rest of his life, but wait? There's another delivery and oh, gosh that one is prettier! And it's coming your way, oh, surely he's going to walk by, surely it's going to Karen from accounting who has a never ending right, black eye or to Mary who shops only at Goodwill and her boyfriend has to hock something every time they need to write a check, no way that beautiful, wonderful, gift is coming to you.
And the guy stops at your cubical and calls out your name and, as best as you can manage, fight to keep an even voice, half thinking he's going to ask you for directions to someone else's cubical, but he hands you the flowers and wishes you a happy valentine's day and you thank him and he leaves.
You note that everyone is standing, watching, peering over their cloth walls and you can't help savor the moment as you read the card, your face a perfect mask of mild annoyance. It reads, 'Because I want you to know how special you are to me'. The clod disobeyed you and you're torn between chirping like a school girl and crying like bride.
You look up and everyone is still watching. You can only try and not rub it in for all the other loser girls who got nothing, as you slowly sink down into your cubical.
So! Guys! Ignore what she says. You ignore her anyway, why suddenly obey her this one time? Obey her when she says, I don't think that ladder is safe, or when she says, we should hire an electrician for this. Listen then.
Oh, and if need be, work an over-time shift or two. Collect cans. Get her one rose if that's all the scratch you can muster because it's only an up front payment for Steak and Blow job day.
Trust me on this one. I'm here for you.