I woke up on Saturday morning and my mood was so “elevated” that my “good morning” sounded like a curse upon three generations. There wasn’t a trace of metaphysical concern in my mind, only the raw reality of paperwork, pending presentations, and the absolute organization of chaos. Everything was fine until I looked out the window.

Snow.

You know, that white stuff that looks romantic in movies, but in reality, is just frozen water conspiring to break your hip. Since my hatred for snow is inversely proportional to my patience, I deployed my “armor”: a sleeping-bag-style coat that reached my toes and those special “anti-gravity” shoes.

I stepped outside. The aesthetic? A muddy dystopia. While walking through streets full of gravel, mud, and slush, I felt a deep, sincere despair. This wasn’t about climate change, but about the filthy footprints all of this would leave on the floors over the next few days. Consequently, my nose had already reached the temperature of frozen cod, and the only thought in my head was one word: why? Why do I have to live through this now?

FROM COLD MUD TO RED MADNESS

I reached my sanctuary, my favorite cafe, before heading to work. As I stepped inside, I experienced the shock.

Red. Everywhere.

The barista managed to recognize me through the mountain of my coat and scarf. He made my coffee with a smile so wide I started to worry. In addition to the red-dressed crowds, hearts were hanging from the bar, chocolates looked like circulatory organs, and roses were suffocating the space. For a terrifying moment, my brain skipped. Furthermore, I felt the cold sweat of early-onset dementia. “Christmas?” I thought. “Did I forget two months of my life?”. Unfortunately, it was just February 14th. I gave the barista a conspiratorial smile, just to get into the spirit of the occasion, paid, and left.

At the door, the ambush: a girl offers me a red rose. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”, she says. I took it out of sheer bewilderment. Therefore, it was a huge mistake, because suddenly, my ergonomics collapsed. I had two hands. One was holding the coffee. The other, which should have been in my pocket, was now holding a plant that was gasping its last breath in the cold. Along the way, people looked at me and smiled with that stupid look: “Look at her, her sweetheart gave it to her.”

No, my dear people. I’m going to work. Moreover, this rose is just an obstacle between my hand and some warmth.

SURVIVING THE ROMANTIC OVERLOAD

On the street, I saw couples arm-in-arm, with girls balancing on high heels through the snow and mud. I felt a sincere sorrow for their tendons and ankles. Actually, I felt all this martyrdom and struggle was pointless. To prove what? That love defeats the laws of friction and ice? It doesn’t. In fact, the physiotherapist will defeat them next week.

I arrived at the office first, getting mud on everything. I knew that in a little while, when the others arrived, the place would resemble a stable after a wild boar raid. Soon enough, the office began to fill up. My colleagues arrived one after another, in a state of suspicious alertness. Indeed, they were all… rested. Suspiciously rested. And that’s when the collective “vomit-info” began.

Small talk started, which soon turned into detailed strategic plans for the night. Specifically, I heard comparisons of restaurants that had been booked months ago, spa packages promising cellular regeneration, and “mini-surprises” that were anything but small. Suddenly, the office was filled with phone screens. Everyone was showing photos of the dishes they were going to eat, the location, the décor, and even the ribbons on the gifts.

Forty minutes passed. The torture was endless. I felt like I was suffocating. Truly, I didn’t want to know if the menu had truffles or if Maria’s gift was handmade jewelry from Etsy. I felt the noise in my ears rising, a clamor of “romantic” clichés hitting my skull like hammers. Finally, I got angry. With that anger that makes you want to disappear from the map.

THE BLOODY ROOTS OF THE FEAST

I grabbed my phone, stood up, and locked myself in the bathroom. While sitting amidst the sterility of the white tiles, I felt the need to find the culprit. Who is this guy who invented this holiday? Who is responsible for breaking my nerves today and forcing me to hear about the beef carpaccio of every lovestruck soul? I took out my phone and googled furiously: “Who is the bastard Saint Valentine and why is he torturing us?” I needed names and addresses. If I was going to suffer from this noise, I at least wanted to know who to curse during my next presentations.

So, I read: Saint Valentine was a priest who secretly married soldiers because the emperor at the time believed that single men made better warriors. Eventually, they caught and executed him. So, let me get this straight: we celebrate a man who was beheaded by eating heart-shaped chocolates? This is cognitive dissonance at its finest. From beheading, we moved to “spa for two” and bears holding hearts. Why?

But I saved the best for last. The roots of the holiday lie in “Lupercalia.” An ancient Roman festival where men ran half-naked through the streets and whipped women with strips of goat hide for… fertility. I sat on the toilet lid and laughed to myself. “Well then,” I thought. “From goat hide we reached the rose I’m holding like an idiot, and from beheading to ‘dinner with a view’.”

RETURNING TO REALITY

I walked out of the bathroom with a new air. I passed in front of my colleagues who were still showing photos of salmon tartare. I looked at them with pity. They thought they were living the dream, while I was thinking they were just participating in a variation of an ancient pagan ritual, without even the goat hide to make it interesting. Afterward, I went to my desk, threw the rose into a half-empty glass of water, just to watch it suffer like me and opened my laptop.

I can’t wait for Monday. When the little hearts will deflate and we will return to the classic, traditional fights: about the food being bland again, about who spent the money on nonsense, and about whose phone rang at three in the morning. This is where jealousy overflows over unwashed clothes and ego doesn’t let anyone say a decent word. Valentine’s is just a break before they start tearing each other’s eyes out for nothing again.

I went home thinking about all this madness. I went out on the balcony, lit a cigarette, and watched the snow falling quietly now, covering the mud on the street. I wondered how many people out there would be celebrating a lie tonight. How many couples would be exchanging gifts to cover their silences and how many promises would be made that will expire before tomorrow morning. For a photo, for the “appearance.”

Zzzzzzt.

Message on my phone.

“I miss you…”

“Me too,” I replied.

(Dedicated to my friend, Iakovos)