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  • Writer's pictureDana Starr

Bears, Boxes and Bracelets

Men, listen up. It's almost V-day and you need to get busy. Put more than five seconds worth of thought into it, and I won't have to watch you in the grocery store on Feb. 13 frantically searching through all the picked-over V-day cards and plunking down an insane amount of money on some sickly-looking wilted flowers (although the petite mini-bouquet of salmon-colored roses at Market Street is to die for, hint hint).

Whatever you decide to buy your honey, please for the love of God, do NOT buy her a giant, stuffed teddy bear. I don't care how many times you see the ad on tv, no grown-ass woman really wants a giant, stuffed teddy bear for V-day. She already has a teddy bear and that is YOU.

She already has a living, breathing teddy bear who doesn't always aim accurately in the loo. A teddy bear who sometimes makes her breakfast. A teddy bear who plays the "name game" with her and makes her laugh hysterically with all his insane historical references. A teddy bear who can remember every single phone number he has ever dialed, but can't remember the names of all his nephews.

She wants YOU, not a giant, stuffed teddy bear. So, put your money back in your pocket and put your thinking cap on. Just for frame of reference, please take a look at my earlier V-day post. Do you see a giant, stuffed teddy bear in any of the pictures? No, you don't because that's not romantical. You can be romantical, but you gotta think about it first before rushing to the grocery store at the last minute.

As a matter of fact, you don't even need to go to the store. Just do what I did in the fifth grade. I have such a vivid memory of V-day in Mrs. Keller's class. At first, I was full of anxiety because our assignment for V-day was a project and I sucked at projects. We were assigned to construct our very own mailbox which would sit on our desk all day long on V-day so that our classmates could deposit their cards to us. My mind was on fire. What to do, what to do? The possibilities were endless. What kind of mailbox could I construct to make Kent Hill fall in love with me?

What magical creation could I conjure with glue, scissors, glitter and a little imagination to make Kent Hill give me his ID bracelet? I really wanted that bracelet because if I wore that bracelet on my arm then that meant that Kent and I were destined to be together for eternity. I was stumped until Phyllis came to my rescue. Phyllis was my after-school sitter and she was divine. She was only around 23-years-old and she was already a widow. Her husband died in a car wreck and it was tragic. She was lovely with long, long black hair and she owned an actual claw-foot bathtub which she kept stuffed with pillows. I loved her and she loved me and she constructed the most magical mailbox for me which I proudly carried to school on V-day.

Did it work? Did I get Kent Hill's ID bracelet? Yes, yes I did and I was breathless. The only problem was that the bracelet was broken and he held it together with a safety pin. That's okay, I told myself. It's still a bracelet with his name on it and he gave it to ME. I was thrilled for all of two days. That's when he asked for it back so he could give it to Diane Davis. Diane Davis, what the hell? She was one of my best friends and how could she do this to me? Well, Diane didn't have the bracelet any longer than I did as it turned out. Kent went from me to Diane to Lisa Hawkins and on and on and on and on. I wonder if he's still doing that to this day? I hope not.

Guys, you don't have to give us your broken ID bracelet or even a giant, stuffed teddy bear. Don't give us anything but your love and we will love it. Although, a petite-mini bouquet of salmon-colored roses wouldn't be a bad thing.

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