I’m not really a fan of Valentine’s Day. Not even of Dragobete—our very own Romanian love celebration, kind of like Valentine’s Day with a sheepskin coat and some folklore sprinkled on top.

To be honest, I completely forgot about both last year. Facebook, that little memory snitch, reminded me this morning what I was doing exactly one year ago: flying to Birmingham. As it turns out, it was Dragobete! “Dragobete kisses girls,” they say. Yeah, well… Dragobete clearly skipped gate B12 at the airport.

I have to admit, all my teenage (and slightly post-teenage) attempts to properly celebrate either Valentine’s or Dragobete ended in… let’s call them romantic trainwrecks. A rose here, a broken heart there, maybe a dramatic poem written under emotional duress. You get the picture.

Over time, I’ve noticed a pattern: women seem to celebrate love based on their relationship status of the year. If she’s in love, expect your newsfeed to drown in a sea of heart emojis, kissing selfies, and “forever with my soulmate” captions. But if she’s single? Oh boy. You’ll hear about how Valentine’s Day is a capitalist scam created by card companies and how love should be celebrated every day, not just on February 14th.

This year, the only Valentine-themed messages I got from my friends were memes along the lines of:
“Surprise your girlfriend this Valentine’s Day: introduce her to your wife!”
Subtle? No. Accurate commentary on modern romance fatigue? Very.

In today’s intergalactic society, we seem to have special days for absolutely everything: Love Day, Book Day, Mother Language Day, Sleep Day, Day’s Day, Night’s Day… If we forget to appreciate something during the other 364 days of the year, we slap a hashtag on the 365th and call it a celebration.

Even my daughter, poor thing, came home from school on Valentine’s Day looking crushed. No card, no chocolate, no sparkly pencil from any boy in her class—while her classmates were unwrapping little heart-shaped trinkets like it was a mini-wedding registry. Apparently, not having a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day is now a medical emergency, one that requires intensive emotional support and at least three glittery motivational quotes.

And while the legend of Dragobete—son of the wise old Baba Dochia—is undeniably beautiful, the idyllic tradition doesn’t quite translate into our modern-day Tinderverse.
Back in the day, villages would light fires on the hills, and boys and girls would gather, chat, and flirt. At noon, the girls would run back to the village, chased by the boys. If a boy managed to catch the girl he fancied, she’d kiss him in front of everyone. That kiss wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise. A public pre-engagement.

Now? A boy and a girl can kiss a thousand times, and the only promise is maybe a Netflix password.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not anti-romance. A thoughtful bouquet is always lovely. A sincere “I love you” still melts the ice around my heart. But these two love feasts (especially the one we imported with stars and stripes) have become more of a business than a blessing. I’d rather have one wildflower and a genuine smile than 15 imported roses and a hollow gesture. Just like that Romanian songwriter once said: “Where there’s no love, there’s nothing.”

So I’ll leave the red balloons and heart-shaped keychains to the enthusiasts and wait patiently for Babele and Mucenici—our uniquely Romanian traditions that involve mystery, weather predictions, and delicious food. You can read about them here. 

Until then, be careful out there—rumor has it Dragobete’s still on the loose… and he’s kissing everyone.