Sweetheart candy sours soul

I remember a time when Valentine's Day was simple. It was an excuse to eat too many of those tart heart candies imprinted with messages like "You're Tops" or "Like You Lots" and spend the rest of the day with a stomachache because I ate three bags of them.

Basically, Feb. 14 was Halloween, except that everyone's older brother or sister acted really strange and no costumes were involved.

You see, second grade was when I had my first crush on a girl. She sat next to me in spelling class and was the reason I made the big change from the bowl-shaped haircut all my friends had to the parted and feathered look of the forth- and fifth-graders.

I decided early that February that Valentine's Day was when I'd make my move. I would give her a chocolate heart and the most suggestive card I could pull from the box of twenty I purchased annually at the local pharmacy.

The card I gave her was the one with two Hershey's Bars dancing and the boy chocolate bar saying to the girl chocolate bar, "Be My Sweetie."

It won her over. I know this because at recess that Valentine's Day she pushed me down the hill at the back of the schoolyard -- a sure sign of love.

(For those of you who did not grow up in suburbia, the only foolproof way to get across to a potential boyfriend or girlfriend that you were interested was to push him or her down a hill.)

Also, punching in the arm worked, as did stealing your desired one's milk at snacktime and tying his or her shoelaces together so that, en route to the snack table, the one you liked fell down.

Really, anything that embarrassed or hurt was acceptable.

This went on for most of elementary school, and at one point, I had quite a streak going -- every Valentine's Day from second grade through fifth I was pushed or punched or had my snack stolen by one of the girls in my class.

Then came middle school. Traumatic does not even begin to describe it.

How was I to compete with eighth-graders in matters of the heart? They were off to high school the following year. They were experienced. They knew about the rule changes. Hell, they were the ones who changed the rules. And they knew how to French kiss and make out.

I learned the hard way that year. I made the mistake of setting my sights on an older woman. I knew I could handle an eighth-grader, but it never occurred to me that she might have a boyfriend.

She did.

Also, I'm fairly sure that her boyfriend had a gland disorder, because his muscles bulged much more than they should have. And he was very protective of his woman.

Luckily, some of my friends had seen him threatening the life of one of his girlfriend's other admirers, and I was warned to back off before any permanent damage could be done.

I was annoyed at Cupid for the rest of middle school, and spent the following two Valentine's Days in protest, turning down all offers to go out.

I was a suburban Gandhi, protesting the wrongs thrust upon so many middle school-aged boys, but instead of hunger strikes I went on junk food binges.

In hind sight, I should have accepted those invitations. But at the time it seemed like a good idea to sit at home and sulk. I suppose I was content to veg in front of the TV with my left hand scraping the bottom of a bag of Chee-tos and my right pouring flat caffeine-free Pepsi down my throat.

Freshman year is when I began to shave, which meant that I could justify using my father's after shave, the smell of which I was sure would send the women flocking to my locker.

What I failed to realize was that the facial hair shaved by a 15-year-old is quite different from the hair shaved by an 18-year-old. As a freshman, I shaved every Monday morning. By Thursday night I had what loosely could be called a shadow. The seniors shaved every day and had their shadows by lunch time.

Again, competition.

So I set my sights on the sophomore girls, because all the senior guys were after the freshman girls -- they were "new meat." But the sophomore girls no longer were important, since the seniors who had pursued them last year already had graduated.

I think I had a date for Valentine's Day that year. Either that or I met a girl at some dance and we decided to call each other "Valentine."

For the remainder of high school, my break-ups always seemed to occur before February. Relationships that have lasted 364 days have been known to end Feb. 13. So I am an official protester of Valentine's Day.

I've received about five calls in the past week asking what I thought would be an appropriate gift for a boyfriend of a year-and-a-half. Or a girlfriend of seven weeks.

"Can I bake him something?" one friend asked.

"Is a two-date-old relationship too young for me to get her something from Victoria's Secret?" another inquired.

So I've dispensed advice over the phone, at the HUB and in the back of classes. I've become an official representative for the male population among my friends. I hope my advice had been worthy.

People have asked me what I'll be doing this year. Well, I'll probably have some people over and just hang out with a keg of Corona. Couples will be there, as will bachelors and bachelorettes.But officially, I'm just an observer.