Ah, Valentine's Day. Mythically the day that birds chose their mates, economically the day candymakers meet their margins, romantically the day the uncertain find a good excuse to throw caution to the winds, and caustically the day curmudgeons get a good chance to gripe.

Heidi gives a good, long rant on the subject, and I wouldn't be me if I faulted her on it. Really, when it comes to a good cynical grumble about ephemeral values, overhigh hopes, and mercenary passions, I'm normally first in line. (Hers is a really good example of the genre, and I recommend it.)

Still, however tempting, I can't join her in the condemnation of the day. First of all, Valentine's satisfies my desire for the absurd. We're celebrating a martyrdom by decapitation with chocolate hearts and lace-trimmed cards. (Actually, let's be thankful for a lack of literalism here: the holiday would be noticeably diminished if we were exchanging chocolate heads.) A saint's day being celebrated with the modern disregard for chastity has its own particular silliness.

And of course, it provides a space for the grand gesture or the considerate small one. Are a dozen roses trite and manufactured for the occasion? Sure. A box of chocolates cliche? Oh yeah. But roses are nice, chocolates are sweet, and neither substantially decrease the amount of happiness in the world. (Not having them won't increase the amount of wisdom, judgment, or discretion in the world, either.)

Besides, it makes some folks happy. St. Valentine's Day is an over-commercialized, tawdry occasion inspiring many cheap and unwise gestures between individuals often overly-besotted with each other. Thank goodness, and long may it be thus. There's nothing wrong with tilting at a few windmills one day a year.