So Valentine’s Day was always terribly traumatic for me. The best memory I have is of a boy named John giving me a valentine in sixth grade. I smiled the rest of the day. (This was before the days of teachers sending notes home with lists of classmates and a request that all the children receive valentines.) John rode the school bus with me and would sometimes be nice to me and sometimes not—when I was in late elementary school, I lived for those times when he was.
Another fun Valentine’s was the year I took matters in my own hands—I decided to leave anonymous valentines in lockers around school for all the guys I hung around with. I had a typewriter at home my parents had bought for me to use for school papers. I took half sheets of plain white typing paper, folded them over, typed their names on the front, and composed a little ditty for each guy that I typed inside the card. I think I did about twelve total and left them in lockers, on desks, and on music stands in the band hall. As far as I know, no one ever guessed it was me. But it certainly got attention around the whole school with all the guys trying to figure out who sent them. I was so proud of myself.