Just like that, we’re approaching another Valentine’s Day. Another day of hefty and cringey paragraphs on Instagram, expensive dinners full of awkward, lovey-dovey small talk and expensive (allegedly “marked-down”) chocolates, flowers and Hallmark cards. The holiday of overconsumption and exploitative consumerism has arrived. And, paradoxically, I’m excited.
Every year, my feelings about Valentine’s Day fluctuate, but my general attitude remains the same: it’s the same dose of insincere and superficial, year after year. This time around, I’m feeling relatively calm — though ask me again after seeing the explosion of newly formed (possible cringe) Cornell couples parading their love around campus, and I’ll probably have a different answer (and a much angrier one at that).
I’m aware of how contradictory it sounds to claim excitement after complaining about the holiday so much, but I stand by it. Everyone, at some point, has to go through a cynical phase when it comes to Valentine’s Day. Some people outgrow it, falling into the holiday’s romantic ideals. Others, like me, linger in their skepticism, rolling their eyes at every grand gesture while still indulging in the spectacle.
Most of the cynics around Valentine’s Day are either unhappy or yearning for their own love. My disdain comes from a purely capitalistic perspective, with a side of resentment for the cringey social media posts we all love (to make fun of).
Valentine’s Day, after all, was not always the love-filled event we know today. It originated as a Christian feast day commemorating Saint Valentine — though I won’t bore you with the details. But once the idea of “love” and “lovebirds” came into play, some very smart minds saw a very profitable market – romance.
According to Ottawa University, “When Valentine’s day finally spread across the pond to the United States, capitalists quickly pounced on what they saw as an enormous opportunity to profit from love. Originally known as Hall Brothers, Hallmark produced the first commercially printed Valentine’s Day card in 1913.”
And just like that, the holiday transformed from a quaint tradition — filled with handwritten letters and the charming use of "Valentine" as a term of endearment — into a billion-dollar industry.
Today, Valentine’s Day is less about genuine connection and more about manufactured expectations: chocolates that double in price overnight, flowers that will wilt by the weekend and dinner reservations made out of obligation rather than romance.
Sure, the holiday has its merits. For some, it serves as a much-needed push to finally express their feelings, and I can respect that. But my belief remains the same: everything done on Valentine’s Day can — and should — be done on any other day of the year. Love, at its best, isn’t about a single grand gesture on February 14 but about the small, thoughtful moments that happen throughout the year.
Yet, despite knowing this, Americans (and, more specifically, Cornellians) continue to feed into the holiday. And while I have at times been a hypocrite — giving in to the overpriced items and the illusion of romance — I also recognize that, in many ways, there’s no other choice.
Plain and simple: if you don’t participate, you’re seen as anti-romance. I didn’t make the rules; that’s just the culture we live in. The pressure to conform is relentless and it’s not just coming from couples trying to prove something — it’s coming from the corporations who profit off our desire to be loved. One of my favorite quotes from Guardian on the subject is, “Please instead make sure to focus on the true meaning of Valentine’s Day, which is, of course, brand awareness.”
And honestly, that’s what Valentine’s Day has become: a marketing scheme dressed up as a celebration of love. It doesn’t bring people closer together — it sets them up for disappointment, pressuring them into performative romance that rarely meets expectations. If anything, Valentine’s Day exposes the very flaws in the idea of grand, one-day-only love. It’s a day of unmet expectations, emptied bank accounts and forced romantic confessions. If you can avoid it, I say run.
But unfortunately, it’s inescapable — even at Cornell.
The campus is littered with Valentine’s Day promotions: clubs selling flowers as fundraisers, the infamous Cornell Perfect Match (complete with Level B pink fishbowl discounts) and even a Chocolate Fest at the Botanical Gardens. Cornellians are good at many things, but if there’s one thing we truly excel at, it’s exploitation. We exploit our classes, skimming syllabi for loopholes in attendance and grading policies. We exploit our BRBs, calculating the most cost-effective ways to stretch meal swipes and avoid overpaying at Terrace. And when Valentine’s Day rolls around, we exploit the holiday too — turning romance into a business strategy, an opportunity to make a few bucks off the lonely or the lovestruck.
Because at the end of the day, Cornellians know what Valentine’s Day is really about. Nothing screams Cornell like a manufactured feeling. We manufacture our happiness and our academic motivation — so artificial romance? That’s just another thing to add to the list.
So, what will I be doing this Valentine’s Day? Probably exactly what you’d expect. I’ll indulge in the half-priced chocolate on February 15, read a couple Instagram posts with a mix of amusement and eye rolls, obsess over my friend's Perfect Match results and maybe even skim through a few sentimental Hallmark cards for fun.
But what I won’t do is buy into the illusion that love should be bought, scheduled, or dictated by a single day of the year. I’ll leave that to the Hallmarks and Hersheys of the world.
Talk to me on February 15, I’ll be normal and unskeptical once again.
Kaitlyn Bell is a first-year in the School of Industrial and Labor Relations. She can be reached at kgb57@cornell.edu.
