It’s de rigeur for those of us who write for women to also write something about the girly holiday of Valentine’s Day. Why girly, I hear you ask? Because most of the noise surrounding this day issues from men who are not only expected to show up with roses and dish out major bucks for a romantic dinner á deux, but also being guilted into buying jewelry or making other grandiose gestures to somehow prove their love. On this day, or else the whole love thing just goes down the toilet, apparently.

To which I heartily throw the bullshit flag.

Number one, there’s very little in the cultural noise that lays out what the women are supposed to do for their partners. There aren’t any men swooning over diamonds in those screechy Jared ads (and may I just, as an aside, register my ick over chocolate diamonds in general and those Open Heart-cobra looking pendants in specific?). Nope. The men are supposed to FULFILL THE FANTASY, and woe unto him who grabs the last wilted bouquet from the bucket outside the Publix and has to settle for either the a) overwrought glitter card or b) inappropriately salacious cartoon card because he just remembered he probably ought to do something on the way home. Hope you bought a parka, ’cause it’ll be mighty frosty when you get there.

The time to tell someone you love her (or him–key part of the equation here) is the other 364 days of the year. If that part isn’t coming through loud and clear, all the champagne in the world on February 14 won’t convince you otherwise. I’d rather have my high-quality dark chocolate some other time, like when I’m feeling really awful, than as a token on Valentine’s Day. Bring me flowers just because, not because you think you have to. And cook me dinner on a day when everything’s gone wrong and the thought of one more thing to do is really more than I can handle at the moment.

Tonight, Mr. Man and I will be going out for barbecue. No roses will be harmed in the making of this Valentine’s Day (Mr. Man knows I prefer tulips anyway), and I have a stash of chocolate in reserve. When it comes down to it, the person is the point, not the date. And especially not the geegaws.