Will You Be My...What Was It Again?

I’m posting on Vile Day—totally unexpected, but when the brain travels off into oblivion, you’re kind of forced to comply. 
Mind starting wandering around the long-lost notion of the question, Will You Be My Valentine? I realized that hardly anyone ever asks it anymore. Nowadays, Valentine’s Day is all about the ‘gimme factor.’
Women expect gifts (not all, but there are some seriously obnoxious ones out there who live to rub the single gal’s nose in her 14th extravaganza, like it was some personalized Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade held solely for her benefit. Um, that was a bit of a wheeze, huh? Sorry). I think it’s probably the result of so much commercialization for the day itself—strange how advertising can effectively mold expectations, isn’t it? The consequence? Men feel obligated to buy things for this highly superficial day, then expect (or at least hope) for sex in return. Hence, you have the gimme factor: She expects gifts (gimme); he feels obligated to buy, expecting/hoping for sex as his reward (gimme). Where’s the love in that? And this is what has me pissy about Valentine’s Day—a day that was once something sweet and innocent.
Remember those days when Valentine’s was nothing more than decorating a white paper bag with red & pink hearts cut out of construction paper or colored in with markers? How about when you’d fill in those little tear off Valentine’s that featured the Peanut’s Gang or Garfield or the Care Bears and slip them into those carefully decorated paper bags now attached to the back of your chair or hanging somewhere along the front of the classroom? Those are the days I miss—when Valentine’s was small and simple, yet full of meaning.
I asked a guy friend when he last actually asked a girl to be his Valentine. His answer? “Not since first grade.” So, I pushed a little more, asking why he doesn’t think to ask that iconic Valentine’s question. His answer? “That’s just it—I don’t think about it. I just know I better buy some flowers or chocolate or some sh*!”
Welcome to a now fully manufactured day.
I miss the white paper bags.