It has been my observation that the purpose of adolescence and early adulthood is to dispel the myths that form our childhoods. Take Valentine's Day, for example.
I remember a distant past, when no one cared whether you wore Uggs or not, every year I would have a Valentine--actually, several. There was no muss or fuss about this splendid day at all, just pink and red scraps of paper, either cut by hand or bought in stores, with a generic saying and a scribbled note, "To: Ashley From: Whoever." Oh, and chocolate.
But, yet again, sex ruined everything. Once securing a Valentine became reflective of sexual desirability, the paper valentines and chocolates dwindled. By age 15, when my valentines dropped from 29 boys and girls to that one creepy kid that stared at me from the corner of the cafeteria, I was fed up. I honestly wanted to know what the point of Valentine's Day was. So I Wikipedia-ed it. There I found that this whole affair was chalked up to some nice Roman priest who got his head chopped off for trying to convert the reigning emperor.
So I said to myself: "Self, this is yet another commercial perversion of the Christian faith. Don't mind it."
And then I came to Duke. Amid the chaos of free-falling into pseudo-adulthood, I wanted to return to the comforts of childhood, including the warmth and freeness of human generosity Valentine's Day used to represent. I realized, however, that as an adult, Valentine's Day had deeper implications than paper and chocolates. This time around, Valentine's Day represented an adult desire for romantic connections.
But I still had my qualms about Valentine's Day. My major issue was Cupid-: his casual use of the bow and arrow promotes romantic liaisons based purely on sexual attraction, not compatibility.
I personally do not want to partake in the romantic chaos that this cherub causes. I mean, who needs an overgrown baby with wings to shoot my love interest down like a pioneer shoots an ox on Oregon Trail?
I propose replacing the angel-gone-wild with a Santa-like figure-I call her Godiva-to promote rational match making. Godiva matches us to our soulmates based on personality and emotional needs. No, Godiva isn't eHarmony.com; the supernatural cannot be bought.
Godiva would also hold us accountable for bad romantic conduct, just like Santa gives coal to bad children. Lying, cheating or leading others on would cause Godiva to withhold romantic happiness from us.
But maybe Godiva does exist, because I've been getting some serious coals lately (probably for secretly throwing imaginary rocks at couples on the Plaza), explaining the lumpy position I am in romantically.
So here I am, a week before Valentine's Day, staring at a box of chocolates, believing it can grant me romantic happiness. In my current state, however, it would be in my best interest to gain the patronage of the diapered huntsman instead of having Godiva decide my romantic fate. Though Cupid is irrational, at least he's not judging me for my bitterness towards happy couples.
Deep down, I know that Feb. 14 does not provide me any more opportunities for romance than the other 364 days of the year. And I know that believing in a diapered miscreant or a character named after a box of chocolates will not secure me a happily-ever-after. But I think that's OK, as long as I am moving away from childhood's commercialization of human affection-even it it's being traded in for a myth of grown up long-term romantic happiness.
Ashley Sarpong is a Trinity junior. Her column runs every other Friday.
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