Groundhog Day is tomorrow.
In the grand scheme of holidays, I realize the one involving a fat rodent is probably not at the top of everybody’s list, but given the other February holiday is romantically (albeit ironically) based on a massacre, I’ll take the gopher.
I blame Hallmark for my distaste for Valentine’s Day. Well, Hallmark and Mrs. Jahr, my first grade teacher. She was the one, after all, who made us decorate shoe boxes with red and pink hearts in great anticipation of that one special Valentine from our childhood crush. And like every crush I’ve ever had, he didn’t know I existed. Valentine’s Day 1980 was the first in a lifetime of Valentine’s letdowns. In the 38 Valentine’s days I’ve been alive to see, I can count on one hand the number of times it’s been celebrated like it is in the movies.
The groundhog however? He’s consistent. That bastard almost always sees his shadow and there’s always six more weeks of winter. He’s predictable. He’s dependable. There’s no build-up or letdowns with the rat. He’s a dude I can count on.
With Valentine’s Day, however, I get to deal with all the jewelry ads, the FTD commercials and the onslaught of red envelopes when I go inside any store. Like every woman with a pulse, I get my hopes up. I think to myself, “This year will be different. This year, there’ll be a card. And roses. And candy. And a candlelit dinner.” There never is.
Okay, once there were flowers, wine and a card.
Once. In thirty-eight friggin’ years.
It’s sad, really, that I can depend on a clairvoyant rat more than I can the man in my life. Now that I think about it, if that woodchuck could bring home a paycheck and kill all the spiders in my house, I might trade the hubby in.
Just kidding.
Mostly.
Happy Groundhog Day, folks.
About the author: Mel is an author, photographer, wife & mom, not necessarily in that order. She tweets as @OUBad & blogs at Blog-anista.
