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Feb. 14 is, for most, a wonderful day. Wives receive flowers. Husbands receive cologne. Hallmark executives receive bonuses. But I've always hated St. Valentine's Day. Some have accused me of not having a romantic bone in my body, which isn't true. (My femurs enjoy long walks on the beach.) I hate St. Valentine's Day because it's the day when I am most aware of the curse I've borne since the minute I slipped from the womb: extreme handsomeness. I know what you're thinking: Isn't being (very, very) handsome a blessing? I assure you, it is not. Indeed, it is anything but. Women have been fussing over me for as long as I can remember. Actually, even longer than that. My mother tells me that on the day I was born, the nurses couldn't keep their hands off me. She remembers them saying things such as "Is he breathing yet?" and "Is his head supposed to be that shape?" I'm sure this medical jargon has left your head spinning, so allow me to translate: "This is the most beautiful boy ever born." In junior high school, girls were crazy about me. Each year on St. Valentine's Day, because they were so embarrassed by their infatuation with me, the girls in my class would go out of their way to not be nice to me. While the other boys received cards saying "You're special" or "You're cute," I would receive cards that said "Your head is too big for your body" or "You look like a pumpkin on a stick" (which I believe is related to the big head, skinny body thing) or "Does your house even have a shower?" They thought they were being clever, those silly lasses. But I knew they were just hiding their true feelings. When I reached high school, although I didn't think it possible, matters worsened. Senior year, I asked out more than a dozen girls for St. Valentine's Day; all said no. I told them they needn't be intimidated by my (inordinate) handsomeness. Alas, it was to no avail. They could not see me for what I really was, a normal person, like them (only much more attractive). I figured college girls, being more mature, would be able to see past my (freakish) good looks to the man beneath the (exquisite) surface. Again, I was wrong. On St. Valentine's Day during freshman year, I asked a girl in my chemistry class if she'd like to go for coffee and she said, "With whom?" That was a good one, I admit. After our guffaws quieted (well, after my guffaws quieted, I guess I should say, as somehow she was able to maintain a straight face), I asked her again. But she offered an excuse, something to do with the washing of hair if memory serves, and begged off. Another in a long line of women scared off by my (immaculate) visage. I cursed my poor fortune. Why me? I wondered. Why did I have to be the bearer of this (perfectly symmetrical) face? It wasn't fair. Why couldn't I be like other men, with their drab, malformed faces, oily skin and gnarly teeth? I longed to fit in, to be approachable, to be something other than an object of beauty that blinded all around me. But I knew wishing for such things would not make them come to be. Wishes are for fishes, as my grandmother used to say. (I still don't know what that means.) So, I've come to accept that every St. Valentine's Day will bring me nothing but misery, that each year when Feb. 14 arrives, I will once again be subjected to a never-ending stream of women offering fake brush-offs. It's flattering to be held in such high regard, I can't deny it. But it's grown tiresome. It is exhausting for me to pretend that these women's many rejections are sincere. For any man who wishes to enjoy St. Valentine's Day, I offer this advice: Don't be (insanely) handsome. A homely man is a happy man. Not that I would know, of course. |