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Valentine’s Day is Totally Feminist
Or At Least It Can Be If We Radically Reclaim It
After the festivities of November and December, we all seem to settle into some sort of renewed optimism come January. That optimism is of course challenged by the reality that we still live in the same house, we still can’t afford that gym membership, we still seem to have an insatiable lust for trashy television we swore we’d stop watching, and we are, plain and simple, the same person we were the year before. We settle into this renewed and more pragmatic sense of self and prepare ourselves for February — technically the shortest month of the year, but I swear to god, it never fails to feel like the longest.
Ah yes, February — the month that begins with a holiday where a groundhog predicts the weather. I’m nearly thirty and I still do not know whether he’s supposed to see his shadow or not, or what either thing means. But I do know that he almost always does whatever thing means winter will last longer. The beginning of this long winter month is also the start of Black History Month, during which time someone, likely a mediocre white man, inevitably offers themselves up as the devil’s advocate, saying, “If there’s a month for black history, don’t you think there should be one for white history?” This man is sure to be surprised when he goes to hell only to discover the devil…
