It Turns Out Valentine’s Day Doesn’t Have to Suck. Here’s How.

No more over-priced prix fixe dinners and cheesy red roses with baby’s breath.

“What about the French place?” I nudged Quinn.

We sat squeezed together on our couch, hunched in a frantic and familiar Valentine’s Day dinner search.

“Nope—that one has a pricey fixed menu,” he huffed.

It felt like chocolate and plushies lined store shelves earlier than usual this year. But we never plan far enough in advance to snag a reservation for February 14. Both of us find V-Day overrated at best, cringe at worst. We have always tried to avoid this Hallmark holiday as best as possible; the frontline resistance against the pressure to do it big. But there was an unfortunate catch. 

February 14 was also our anniversary. 

We’d been close since our first day of college. He was the shy engineer across the hall in our cramped dorm. Me, a student-government type, with big Leslie Knope energy. We didn’t have much in common, but our roommates’ rabid love lives made the hallway between our rooms a second home. The hours we spent there led to a magnetic attraction neither of us could quite explain.

We dated on and off throughout college, but by our last semester I was convinced it would never stick between us. It felt harmless to ask him to the orchestra in early February. “As a friend,” I clarified. We brushed away the cards placed on each seat with puns like “Will You B-Minor?” yet as the overture to Romeo and Juliet swelled our hands brushed. 

We’d crossed some unspoken threshold. A week or so later, on February 14, I had him over for a talk. When our breath mingled, his mouth hovering near mine on the edge of my twin bed, I leaned in to close the gap. 

At first, it was a silly joke. “Yeah, we know, it is kind of basic” we’d scoff when asked how we finally made it official. But over time, it felt like our anniversary—a day meant to be unique and special to us—would always be gobbled up by St. Valentine. Sure, we could stay home and cook an elaborate meal, but we refused to remain cooped up to avoid the crowds. The holiday felt so performative, but it still threatened to eclipse a day meant just for us. 

That’s how, a few years ago, we gave up on dinner or a show and decided to take a class instead. We ended up in a cluttered warehouse full of robotics equipment, sawdust, and heavy machinery, making ukuleles. Quinn and I huddled over a workbench with glue-covered fingers as the instructor showed us how to stick pegs onto the neck and secure the fretboard. Each time I looked over at Quinn, I noticed a new quirk: he had chosen to paint his ukulele bright blue, with glittery metallic triangles. How he patiently attached the strings, while I shoved and forced. How, when he proudly lifted his finished instrument, he knew—to my surprise—a few chords. Our alternative Valentine’s Day celebration left us with more than a new craft learned. It had helped me learn something new about Quinn, too, and my love for him grew even deeper. 

Now, it’s a tradition. Each year on Valentine’s Day, we take a class or pick up a hands-on project neither of us has tried. Peak pandemic, air-dry clay at home. Later, scrapbooking. Last year, we bought a mosaic kit. Every experience enhances our shared hobbies, helping both of us feel more seen, more known. The vulnerability of creating together has made every part of life more intimate. We approach each class with a curiosity and openness to the new and unexpected in each other in a way we could never at a candlelit restaurant.

When Quinn and I got married two years ago, we were thrilled to finally change our anniversary. Even better: our venue had one day left in our target month, May. My aunt sent me a text when she got the invitation.

“May the Fourth Be With You!” it read. “Will there be any Star Wars?”

I showed Quinn. “Darn,” he said, and we both groaned, though not without a giggle, too. It seemed we couldn’t avoid choosing an anniversary that was a holiday to someone. 

But people don’t book out restaurants to celebrate Star Wars. That means it’s much easier to secure a night out and, finally—after nearly a decade—our anniversary is just for us. But somewhere along the way, our February 14 classes helped Valentine’s Day creep into our hard, V-Day hating hearts.

We will never go back to scouring for an open table on February 14. This year, we eagerly debated fused glass or weaving, landing on stained glass. I know we’ll pick up weaving someday. We have a lifetime to make heart-eyes across a workbench as we hone a new skill on Valentine’s Day. 

Turns out, nothing could be more romantic.

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