By the time we’re both dressed in our street clothes, I’m exhausted and reading for a very cold shower.
We head to the register with our purple prizes, and the cashier doesn’t even stop reading her book to ring us up. We pay, then escape into the afternoon sun with our bags. Jackson threads his fingers through mine.
“What are you doing?” I ask as my breath hitches from the gentle act.
“We’re out in the open,” he says simply. “Someone might see us. Gotta play the part, right?”
Play the part.If only this were a role. If only Jackson weren’t my best friend. At least then, doing this—walking around town and pretending I’m dating Jackson Monroe—would be a piece of cake.
THE BERKELEY SHORE GAZETTE
CAMPUS NEWS & CULTURE SINCE 1923
When Valentine’s Day Jumped the Shark
A lament for romance in the age of roller disco
By Sarah Piper
Staff Writer
I’m old enough to remember when Valentine’s Day meant something pure. We’d spend the entire week decorating shoeboxes with construction paper hearts and doilies, leaving our fingers sticky from dried glue. Come February 14th, we’d stuff those boxes with store-bought valentines featuring cartoon characters making terrible puns. “You’re DINO-mite!” with a T-Rex wearing sunglasses. “Bee Mine!” with an anthropomorphic bumblebee that looked vaguely threatening.
The candy hearts tasted chalky, but we ate them anyway because sugar is sugar when you’re eight. The messages on them ranged from sweet (“I CHOOSE YOU”) to grammatically offensive (“LUV U”). If your crush gave you one that said “KISS ME,” you’d treasure it until it dissolved into pastel dust in your pocket.
Fast forward to high school, where Valentine’s Day meant anonymous carnations delivered during homeroom. Red for love, pink for friendship, white for secret admirer—and none for those named Gretchen Weiners. The popular kids’ desks morphed into funeral arrangements by third period, while the rest of us clutched our single pink carnation from our best friend and pretended we didn’t care.
In college, Valentine’s Day evolved. It meant watchingMy Bloody Valentine(I’m partial to the 2009 remake—Jensen Ackles in 3D, need I say more?) while eating our body weight in discount chocolate. It meant writing satirical articles about the commercialization of romance while secretly hoping someone would ask us out.
But this?Thisis where romance goes to die.
A roller disco competition isn’t just jumping the shark—it’s strapping a rocket to the shark and launching it into a galaxy far, far away. When did we go from paper hearts to shoving our bodies into tight spandex? When did “Be Mine” become “Watch Me Shake My Ass?”
I spent yesterday conducting interviews around campus, trying to understand how we arrived at this point. The responses were illuminating.
“I’m not thrilled about the idea of people being able to see my boyfriend’s junk,” Elliot Montgomery tells me over coffee at The Brew. He’s wrapped in one of Gerard’s hoodies, resembling a grumpy burrito. “It’s weird. It’s invasive. And most importantly, he’s too excited about it for me to rain on his parade.”
Across campus, I find Alex Donovan in the computer lab, surrounded by sociology textbooks. His take is predictably academic. “From a sociological perspective, it’s fascinating,” he says. “The commodification of male sexuality, the intersection of charity and exhibitionism. There’s probably a thesis in there somewhere.”
“But will you attend?” I press.
He blushes so hard I worry about his blood pressure. “That’s not relevant to the sociological implications.”
“That’s a yes.”
“Next question.”
Gerard Gunnarson, the man whose legendary posterior launched my best friend’s relationship, practically squeals when I track him down at the rink.
“It’s for charity!” He beams. “And if my butt—I mean, if the team can help by coming down with disco fever and roller skating sensually to a great song, then why not?”
“Would you watch your own performance?” I ask, pen poised.
The six-foot-five Viking turns the color of a stop sign. “I mean…that would be weird, right? Watching myself? Sure, I stood in front of a mirror once, to see what my partner sees, but…”
I don’t have the heart to tell him that, according to the online chatter, his soon-to-be videotaped performance already has a waiting list longer than the line for new iPhones.
The rugby team captain, Roger Kavanaugh, is refreshingly blunt. “We raised thirty grand at the charity car wash last year, and that was just us in shorts. You think we’re not going to triple that, being in spandex and showing off our moneymakers? This is genius. Progressive, really.”
