Not a day goes by when the insidious bacterium of commercialized saccharine doesn’t creep forward to overtake another otherwise cheerful and well-adjusted single soul. The days edge forward like a manic-depressive investment banker on Black Monday toward a window ledge.

It’s Valentine’s Day, and while Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey might be having a barfmatic pink-and-teddy-bear kind of love fest that outdoes the cuteness of a stack of puppies napping on Anne Geddes calendars, yours truly is planning on donning simple black and avoiding pity chocolates passed off to me by both lady and gentlemen players and player haters.

Eh, don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t. After all, I generally eschew the holiday for it’s over-hyped pressure that typically floods over the rest of the populace. The weeks preceding Valentine’s Day always result in the following:
1. An influx of pink at every retail opportunity possible. Pink is everywhere: pink flowers, pink purses, pink shoes and pink cards. Even my tamale lady who roams the late-night watering holes with her tasty, handmade and spicy delights starts sporting pink ribbons in her hair. Trust me on this one, it’s hard to digest a tamale at 3 a.m. when it’s handed off to you by a short, very round and abundantly pink Mrs. Gonzales. It’s hard enough fighting off the pink elephants.

2. Couples set unreasonable expectations for each other. Girls start counting hours as if some portent anniversary and relationship milestone will be achieved by this otherwise completely arbitrary date. A three-month relationship in the summer does not legitimize an expectation for roses and jewelry. A three-month winter stint does not typically lead to anxiety attacks on whether a couple should start genetic counseling to see if their future children will be better stationed toward a career in professional classical music or entrepreneurship. Men start to develop allergies to bath products after numerous forays to Bath & Body Works or Lush to select a gift that denotes appropriate familiarity and femininity while cloaking an otherwise pre-meditated plan to touch a gal’s soft, scented, well-massaged ass.

3. The singles get desperate. One starts reconsidering online dating services, blind dates or speed-dating adventures. Trust me on this one, this will only end in tears. Personally, I really hate consoling bawling men on the curb when it’s raining while listening to Aerosmith. Been there. Done that. Bought the T-shirt. Went on the book-signing tour. This is not rock and roll. And I’m all about rock and roll. I have no doubt my parents loved each other deeply. But their most intimate display of affection while I was growing up involved picking the earwax out of each other’s heads. Picking up where they left off, I expressed my filial devotion to my father by clipping his toenails. And he has ugly and terrible feet that cause damsels to faint and men to lose courage. I have inherited those feet. My father loves me enough to remember to wash his feet before I begin. That, darling readers, is real love.
This is the same love that inspires mothers to wipe the asses of their babies, and fathers to not dry-heave when cleaning up after baby barf that has the texture and color of corn chowder. Real love means sitting on the couch when you have a hacking cough and knowing that your loved one will hit you fiercely and with conviction on the back to loosen up your phlegm-filled lungs. This is the love that inspires my friend Glenda to shave the back of her boyfriend. Now, can you really imagine Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey doing that? You definitely won’t see that in the next Lindsay Lohan movie. True love involves an unquestioning willingness to tolerate the occasional gross act.