When I was 19, a mere 7 months before I was to be asked out on a first date by Future Spouse (TM), someone sent me a valentine. It arrived in my campus post office box, cut and paste from a newspaper and scotch taped onto a sheet of stationary watermarked with an image of bamboo stalks. The return address was cryptic, but I knew who it was- he drew the tattoo he had on his shoulder, our secret code. This valentine was, to me, at the time, something I thought superfine- adult, smart, political, funny, unusual.
But I was 19. And now I'm not, and now the best ever valentines come in the form of other things: a day of IMing with friends about bed and breakfasts, and books, and gently mocking other friends who use Fugees lyrics in emails unironically; meaningful press releases that I actually enjoy writing; an email from an old coworker that they, too, have finally told The Man to shove it; a vase full of lilys*; a delicious homemade meal by a cute dude in a tight plaid shirt (shared, see above)**; and very, very soft dog ears.
Right now, I'm watching the Westminster Dog Show: my happy place. Hounds are currently competing. Tomorrow, I'm wearing a sweater vest.
I'd say the week could get better, but I'd probs be lying.
* (the lily signifies death, unless you are hanging at my house, and then all it signifies is a flower I really like.)
** (P.S. I'm sorry you couldn't marry my husband, Internets. It was selfish of me, but I don't care. I gloat. You are missing out and how.)