Valentine's Day is almost upon us.  I have a love-hate relationship with that day: I love to hate it.

Call it sour grapes.  Call it whatever the heck you want, honestly.  The day excites me about as much as repeatedly slamming my head in my own car door.  My utter hatred for it dates waaaaay back, and with good reason: for some reason, growing up, I was always single — or, at least, alone — on February 14th.  Prior to 2004, the year I got married, I happened to be seeing someone precisely once in my old-enough-to-date years.  And I hardly call sitting in a coffee house at a table with my then-girlfriend and my own mother a good V-day date.

Even when Wife #1 and I met face-to-face the first time, I went to visit her the week before Valentine's Day.  Sure, we had a nice celebration the night before I returned home, even though she had to attend a class for the early portion of that evening, but we weren't physically together on the actual day.  And there were even obstacles during the three she and I spent together, but we won't get into that.  The bottom line is this: Valentine's Day despises me, and I spurn it.  It's a two-way hatred that burns almost as deep as the fourth level of hell.

Okay, I admit that I'm actually looking forward to it this year.  Do I expect it to be much different than what seems like millennia past?  No, that would fit the definition of insanity.  But, barring some strange twist of fate in the next 24 hours — and given my track record on February 14, I'm not yet ruling out the possibility — I'll be spending a peaceful Thursday night with someone whose company I rather enjoy, preparing and cooking a lasagna together and enjoying a quiet evening with a movie and a bottle of wine.  If you ask me, that's the way to spend it.

And it sure beats the year I sat at a restaurant with my friend, Joanna, and flipped off all the happy couples who came in to eat.