This might come as quite a shock, but I unabashedly adore Valentine’s Day. Loved up (currently) or single, it either provides the perfect opportunity to devote time to your significant other or it represents an entire day where one can bemoan love in a Germaine Greer-style torrent of Feminist abuse, aided by litres of gin and all your single friends. If all of your friends are coupled up, then Bridget, Ben and Jerry will happily step in. I reject any notions of ‘Valentine’s-Day-is-a-pointless-waste-of-time-because-if-you-really-loved-each-other-then-you-wouldn’t-need-a-day-to-show-it’ because, like Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day, it is rare that we are able to show our appreciation to the extent that we would like to every day of the year, so putting one day aside is useful and convenient. Equally, it can be just as fun for singles.
But, and there was always going to be one, there is always one couple who take it too far. Nobody wants to see Facebook photos of you kissing under the Eiffel Tower and we all know you begged him to buy you flowers because guys don’t think of things like that for themselves. For some reason, such people feel like the world should share in their happiness. Note to them: sharing is never caring when it involves your life going stupendously superficially well. It’s these couples, the ones that feel the need to proclaim their love to the world, who should be forcibly restrained from buying Me to You bears and icing messages on Thornton’s chocolate hearts.
They’re the ones who received Valentine’s cards from the age of seven, and who ate Love Heart sweets thinking that every message was a snippet of Aristotelian genius. Then they found each other, and your newsfeed will inform you in a far less aggravated manner than I can as to the professions of undying love that inevitably followed. It would seem that sooner or later, one tires of one’s friend’s increasingly arduous love story, the fruits of which seem to divulge themselves in spectacular fashion on Valentine’s Day. And rest assured that it won’t just be you whose heart sinks when you see the photos of the two of them at the restaurant (booked two months in advance), for however in love you may be, let alone if you’re single, nobody wants to be subjected to a tirade of tasteless ostentatiousness and romantic paraphernalia.
I was once the lucky recipient of an A1 sized Valentine’s card. And, flattering as it was, to this day I have no idea what to do with the bloody thing, let alone the envelope. You don’t realise quite how intrusive a folded piece of A0.5 card is until the 15th, or maybe the 16th, of February. I thought about throwing it away, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, not least because I’m still with the guy (!) but because it made my younger self secretly chuffed. I loved it. But we grow up, we realise that there is (or should be) more to a relationship than gaudy gifts that reek of tack. My point is this: Huge tokens of love are fun, but we fail to remember that the extent of a lover’s devotion and the dimensions of the gift are not always proportional.
Fortunately for the rest of us, the brash and overwhelmingly underwhelming couples who still believe that we wish to partake in their rose-tinted sham are normally such exhibitionists because their relationship is very, very tenuous. So tenuous in fact, that they’re the ones who end up in an embarrassing game of ‘surreptitiously edit the Relationship Status’ a few months down the line. It’s not all fun and games when the rose petals have wilted and the human-sized teddy bear is the only thing keeping the other side of the bed warm. Nobody’s convinced that pink sequins and champagne sustain your love story. Ostentatious immodesty does not an infallible pairing make.
More often that not, the best ways to spend Valentine’s Day are cliché-free and downplayed. Think mutually enjoyable, unconventional and personal. Something somebody somewhere should really tell the ‘it’ couple. This is one of those times where less is unquestionably more. So singles, bask in your freedom and twosomes, be subtle. It’s the only way to ensure that harmony prevails.
Now that the Christmas decorations are back in the attic and the champagne hangover is a hazy memory, writers of all publications are singing the dawn of a new year, forecasting absolute rubbish for all those whose daily lives are guided by none other than the media’s interpretation of the star sign under which they were born. How on earth horoscopes merit pages in national newspapers and magazines is beyond me. Graduates from the Politician’s School of Fraudulent Activity, horoscope writers can’t seriously believe in the twaddle that they write. Have you ever noticed that you’re experiencing the same financial woes as every twelfth person you know? Nope, thought not. Call me a cynic (who isn’t these days?) but I, for the sake of human intellectual development, hope to god that there’s not a single soul on earth who reads their horoscope with any illusions of grandeur any more.
January is a perilous time for reading horoscopes. Not only are they everywhere but they also purport to tell you what’s in store for the next twelve months (‘What’s in the stars for your zodiac sign this year’). Not content with giving you monthly or weekly updates, you get a nice little rundown of your life for the next year in about 100 words. Comprehensively well-informed by the movements of Venus, this year I can expect to be mischievous in August under my Taurean star sign. Never one to doubt, and in the name of research, I read on. Big mistake. Apparently, due to my love of good food, 2011 will be the year that I contract throat inflammation and laryngitis. I inform my boyfriend, who reminds me that he is also Taurus, and we foresee a period during which our throats are both so swollen that communication becomes impossible. This would be fine by me, if it wasn’t for that burning ball of perennial optimism, otherwise known as the Sun, expanding my ‘professional options’ at around the same time. Goodness knows the calamity that might ensue.
Thankfully, most sane people are aware that this is, of course, complete nonsense. I don’t dispute that star signs are derived from the zodiac, which is fundamentally an elliptic coordinate system. What I resent is that the popularised personality guessing-games that have become associated with the signs of the zodiac and perpetrated by the media distort the scientific basis of this branch of astrology. I wish some of the things that are written would come true, but there is no factual support for the accuracy of horoscopes and therefore no good reason why you should waste valuable minutes of your life reading them. There is no element of truth involved in horoscopes and I know this for certain, given that the star sign I fall under actually varies from publication to publication. I call myself a Taurus, but in actual fact, my May 21st birthday is on the cusp, so I could really be Gemini. In the past this has led to sad and fairly deranged attempts to assimilate the best parts of each horoscope in order to fashion a perfect life for myself. This practice proved to be as pathetically futile as it sounds, but it does demonstrate the ridiculousness of the horoscope as a medium of pseudo-ontology.
I have often wondered how upstanding publications get away with publishing such psycho-babble. The best answer I have come up with so far is that horoscopes are written for the period ahead, and nobody I know actually goes back and reviews their week/month/year to check for horoscope correlation and anomalous results. Thus the miraculously incorrect prediction goes unnoticed, forgotten and unaccountable. Can you imagine the shock of your personality functioning in a way that the stars didn’t dictate? There is a pervading sense that horoscopes are just a bit of fun, but I can’t help but see their presence as a sign that they are still in demand, as if people would rather read a fictitious story about a life that they will probably never lead, written by someone who they will probably never meet.
We should do away with horoscopes because they are a fallacy. My career prospects don’t look good because Mystic Meg decided that Mars is in conflict with Jupiter, if anything, they look good because I’m writing this column. Luck isn’t pre-destined, we have to fight for it, and horoscopes are symbolic of the pervading complacency that plagues our society. I’d probably be willing to bet money on ending this year free from laryngitis and if my ‘professional options’ (sounds ominous) expand, then it’ll be because I went to an interview of some description. If you do still read and believe in horoscopes, then I hope the stars spell out a nice narrative for you. If you happen to be Libra, you have the pleasure of looking forward to some ‘weird health complaints’ and any Sagittarians should watch out for their ubiquitous ‘expanding waistlines’. Happy New Year!
