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Within months of Black Sunday, my three roommates were all in relationships. H. found love with a truck driver 12 years her senior. They met at her mom's fourth wedding, where they consumated their relationship on the kitchen table. S. fell for a frat boy and went on to be that skanky girl who lives at the frat house, coming home only when she needed clean underwear. A. dated our neighbor for about a month, then bitched about him for the next five years.

I know H. went on to marry and procreate with her guy. For all I know, S. did the same. As for A., last I heard she was a 25-year-old virgin living with her parents. Our friendship ended shortly after things began to get serious between B. and me. Not that this surprised me. Most of A.'s friendships ended when the friend fell in love. Of course, this had nothing to do with A. Woe is her, always betrayed! I'm sure she's sure it has nothing to do with the fact that she would change the subject anytime B.'s name was mentioned.

I put myself through my own romantic crap, which I won't go into because my mom reads my blog (Hi Mom! Go away!). Suffice it to say that of the four of us, none of us had a shred of self-esteem or self-respect among us, and we were blind to how our attitudes and actions put us in the positions we were in. Sure, we made a lot of noise about the pointlessness of love and romance, but every single one of us was more than willing to do whatever it took - even sacrificing our friendships - to get it. In retrospect, it's obvious that 1) we were young and dumb, and 2) we didn't really hate Valentine's Day; we hated ourselves.

That's why I'm always skeptical when I hear people vehemently expressing their hatred of Valentine's Day. It's just a day. Either celebrate it, or don't. If you don't like the commercialism, don't partake in it. Simple as that. Why waste precious time and energy pissing and moaning about it? Unless there's something under the surface, something that might be painful and ugly, so it's safer and easier to throw your venom at a day, a concept, than it is to confront what's really going on.

Likewise, I'm equally wary of people who go overboard on the Valentine's Day spirit. Insert previous paragraph here, but replace "pissing and moaning" with "whooping and hollering", and "venom" with "full-on candy-coated support"

Not surprisingly, my down-with-love attitude vanished within minutes of moving away from my roommates. I was stunned at how we fed off each other. In the two years I lived with them, I went from being outgoing, flirty, confident and fun to being a depressed little drone. As soon as I moved out, I started finding myself again. Within a month, I was dating. Dating a lot, and having a grand time. I was going out, making new friends, and wondering why in the hell I'd spent two years with such hateful, bitter people.

I was well on my way to having a normal relationship with Valentine's Day. We'd nod passingly at each other every February. "Hey, how's it going, Robin?" Valentine's Day would ask. "Care for a Conversation Heart?" "Sure, V-Day! Thanks! I love sugar!" I'd reply "Have a good one. I'll see ya next year!" If I was seeing someone on Valentine's Day, great. If not, not big deal.

Remember how I mentioned that I have a bit of a hang-up about dates? I come by it honestly. Just like the universe has dictated that something awful should happen on or near my birthday every few years, it's also dictated that two of the most important days of my life should land on Valentine's Day.

1999: My first Valentine's Day with B. We'd been together for nearly a year and knew that this was it. We were in the process of closing the deal on our house, and I was preparing to leave the life I'd built during my eight years in Columbia. I was exicted, scared, completely in love, and going against my instincts to make the best Valentine's Day ever! Which was a terrible idea. When I try to make anything the best whatever ever, it's guaranteed to blow up in my face. This was no exception.

Much like that Valentine's Day six years earlier, which seemed so fun and important at the time, I don't remember the details of what made that night with B. so bad. It was stupid stuff. A stain on my new sweater, an overpriced, underwhelming dinner at an overcrowded restaurant. Nevermind the stress of the house-buying, the move and all it entailed. Since Valentine's Day was on Sunday, our horrible date had been on the 13th. When we woke up on Valentine's Day proper, we were picking and snarking at each other before we got out of bed. Again, I don't even remember why. In the middle of the argument I snapped, "You know, I was thinking I might ask you to marry me last night, and now I'm so glad I didn't!" To which B. responded, "Well, I was going to wait until Memorial Day and propose to you on the anniversary of our first date!"

Needless to say, the fight ended rather quickly after that. But nothing else was mentioned about the talk of proposals and such. Later that night he returned to St. Louis and we continued our routine of having our lives 100 miles apart.

The next Friday, B. was sitting in my living room after making the drive to see me, like we'd been doing every weekend for nine months. We ate dinner, and as I was clearing the dishes I said, "Hey, B.? Are we, like, engaged?"

He thought for a second, smiled and said, "Yeah. Yeah. I guess we are, aren't we?"

And so we were. He never got down on one knee. No question was ever asked. It just happened. If asked, B. will tell you that we got engaged "sometime between February 14th and February 19th." Ask me, and I'll say it was on Valentine's Day.

2004: I woke up at 8:45 a.m. feeling some pressure on my lower abdomen. Not that this was unusual; I'd been feeling pressure on my lower abdomen for months, seeing as I was carrying a kid who was estimated to be clocking in around 10 pounds and showing no signs of budging. But as I lay there, working up the energy to haul my pregnant girth out of bed, I knew. My water didn't break. There was no bloody show, no debilitating contractions. Just enough of a different feeling for me to know Clara Jane was on her way, but possibly stuck in traffic.

B. and I went to the diner amidst the usual Saturday morning breakfast crowd. "Today's the day!" I announced, balancing on my usual stool at the counter and ordering two fried eggs with bacon, hash browns and wheat toast, certain it would be the last meal I'd eat for awhile. A reporter for the local NBC affiliate was sitting a few spots from us, and he didn't miss that the diner crew and all the regulars were taking time to hug me, wish us well, and shriek, "Oh my God! I can't believe you're here, in labor, eating breakfast!"

"Are you really in labor?" he asked, and I could see the reporter wheels turning in his head.

"Yeah, but don't call the crew or anything. It's going to be awhile."

"Oh." He looked a bit disappointed that I wasn't going to crawl onto the counter and let Dempsey the Grill Man deliver my child. Can you blame him?

We had our breakfast, went to Target for a walk, and then hunkered down at home. That Valentine's Day, I talked to almost everyone I know as word spread that Clara Jane was on her way. Bundled into my warm little house, with B. and Aunt Codependent with me, friends and family calling to tell me they loved me, I can honestly say I have never felt more loved in my life.

I left for the hospital at 10:30 PM, when U2's "Beautiful Day" came on VH1. That song has sent me out of the house on so many adventures, that it only seemed right to leave that night when it was played.

The bitterness and resentment I once felt about Valentine's Day are long gone in two of those funny little twists the universe is so fond of making. Granted, I'm sure I'd feel this way about, say, June 23rd if I'd happened to get engaged and go into labor on that day. But it would lack the irony, the little smirk directed my way that says, "Remember that year that you were an annoying asshole about Valentine's Day? Heh heh heh.. watch this." That irony, that smirk reminds me there is so much love in this world and in my life, and there's nothing wrong with celebrating it. In this case, we'll be celebrating with carry-out Indian food, a dozen red roses, and a little girl who's pretty stoked about turning two tomorrow.