Remember the Shoebox Lady? Sometime in the mid-90s, Hallmark realized capitalism shouldn't be limited to the roses-and-syrup set. An entire division of ostensibly "snarky" cards sprung up next to the estrogen aisle, and the Shoebox lady was born. A grizzled old gal with clouds of smoke-gray hair, the Shoebox lady wore determinedly unfashionable sunglasses and saggy fannypacks, brandished the occasional cane for maximum geriatric emphasis, and espoused punch lines that suggested the recipient of the birthday card was a minute away from a hasty Eucharist and familial squabbling over the will. The other "funny" cards, heavily laden with ironic pictures of David Hasselhoff in spandex and snapshots of grumpy-looking bulldogs, didn't stand a chance against the Shoebox lady's wizened, slatternly grousing.
There was only one problem. The Shoebox lady didn't do Valentine's Day.
Doubtless, her view on the holiday could be summed up with some hard-won cynicism and a juvenile pun: "Dear shnookums, shelling out 50 bucks for Valentine's Day sucksc9 just like you in an hour!" Unfortunately, corporate rapacity and the last vestiges of taste, worked their merciless expurgations against her ribald kibitzing. The Shoebox lady, gesturing angrily from the innocuous faces of birthday cards, was silenced, barred from her role in shaping the great cultural landscape of the American greeting card industry. Eventually, the Man succeeded in doing away with her entirely. (Sad; I'm sure she could have brought untold festivity to my father's impending 50th.)
I, for one, miss her. I miss her sucker-punches at the paunchy and complacent. I miss her childish zingers at overexcited teenage boys. I miss her needling and wheedling of overeager single women. And I especially miss her on Valentine's Day -- the sugary, prefabricated brainchild of corporate machination.
Were she around, she would dissect the slack, endemic blandishments of starry-eyed 15-year-olds drunk on their own feelings, plunder the manufactured emotion (and devotion) of expectant boyfriends, ravage the breathless anticipation of hopeful middle-aged women. She would puncture the weepy laments of the self-described "pathetically single" who view a $5.99 heart-shaped box of stale chocolate as a reliable yardstick for self-worth. She would issue a cruelly accurate diatribe against the 24-hour pressure cooker of conditioned expectations and moony fantasies of eternal, gushy, delirious love. She would elbow a dumbstruck Lothario, his fingers entwined over a candlelit dinner table, and hiss, "Yoohoo! Next, tell her she's torn out your heart just like the marauding Roman soldiers tore out St. Valentine's!" She would rock harder than any cold isometric crystal.
The Shoebox lady was harbinger of something more evolved than simple immaturity or bitterness. Imagine her jumping off the page, suddenly 3-dimensional and fully alive. Her frumpy outfits, wrinkles and quick-witted acerbity would prompt speculative eyebrows and rudely wagging tongues. Would the expectations and pathetically conformist calumnies of common yentas cow her? I doubt it.
I see her vibrantly flourishing her cane in the emphatic choreography of the confrontational, rearranging the world with her well-chosen verbal darts. She would puncture and deflate the silly trappings, the frilly festoons, the facile ostentation of Valentine's Day ritual. She would be a clear voice against the social intimidation of the sappily entwined, a reminder that the celebration of love is not measured in gushing greeting cards, roses, chocolate, diamonds or any other socially accepted accoutrement of supposed affection.
She would speak out for the couples whose sexuality estranges them from these stifling heterosexual rituals. She would defend those who are single (by choice or by accident) against the onslaught of saccharine, commercialized advertisement for romantic perfection. She would embrace those couples who refuse to buy into this assembly-line celebration of love and relationships. Granted, her surly declamations would be aimed less at poking holes into our social standards than at having a good laugh at everyone else's expense. Still, asperity born of any motive casts some much-needed common sense on the largely empty bathos surrounding this mawkish, manufactured holiday.
So, let us raise our oversized, red plastic frat-party cups in her memory. Valentine's Day is over for another year, but our celebration of the Shoebox lady can live on. Don your favorite fannypack, pop a few leftover truffles for energy, and go stir up some socially charged trouble. You may even get a Hallmark endorsement out of it.
