I've never really resented Valentine's Day before. Like Ramadan and Hanukkah, it was just a holiday that didn't apply to me. If anything, I resented the implication that I ought to resent Valentine's Day. I don't resent Chinese New Year, people.
This year, however, it happened. The resentment began building February 1st, when friends, relatives, and Internet folk began putting up decorations, talking about countdowns, and making ooey-gooey plans.
Criticism one: It's not Christmas. There's no countdown needed.
(Here's where I tried, but failed, to resist the impulse to write, "Do you people have a countdown to Easter? A countdown to the celebration of the Atonement and Resurrection of our Lord? Because I haven't noticed that on any blogs.") (Alternatively: "Do you people have a countdown to Passover, a celebration of God's loyalty and the end of bondage?") (And to the atheists: OK, you guys can have the holiday. You don't believe in an afterlife, after all.)
Criticism two: Why do people in love get a holiday? You get to be happy 365 days a year. That's a whole lot of opportunities to be smug. Giving you an extra special day is like having Rich People Day or an Annual Celebration of Celebrity.
(Parenthetical in which I defend my reasoning against the inevitable, "What about Fathers/Mothers Day?" line of thought: Being a parent must suck at least as much as it is awesome, and therefore they deserve a day to tip the scales in their favor. Also why Presidents get a day.)
So I decided to have a dinner party on Valentine's Day. Not a Valentine's Day Party, not an Anti-Valentine's Day Party. Just a party, something to look forward to other than romantic bliss or hater angst, in which my friends and I make (or order, depending on our level of enthusiasm) dinner and then watch a Sam Raimi classic.