‘Tis the season. No, I’m not horribly confused. Despite the fact that I still have a wreath on my front door, I am well aware that it’s not Christmas. No, no, my dears. I’m talking V-Day.

If I were an incredibly lazy columnist, I would write an extremely generic article on how I have always been single on Valentine’s Day, how I contemplate killing every hand-holding couple on campus this time of year and how my only comfort this season is the free chocolate my Valentine (read: my mom) sent me.

Only, I’m not going to do that. You see, there is a reason behind why single people hate V-Day. And it’s not just because it becomes extremely obvious to everyone whether or not you’re getting laid.

My reasons? Oh, they go way back.

Let’s start in the good ol’ early 90s. Say … somewhere in between my fading crush on that one guy from Savage Garden and my new girl-power connection with Scary Spice. At my lower school, Valentine’s Day meant one thing and one thing only: Power Ranger mini-cards.

You see, while girls spent days preparing poorly-decorated doily cards for that one special someone, the lazy mothers of 6-year old boys would hop on over to Wal-Mart and pick up a mondo-pack of these 2x2 inch generic mini-cards.

They were more like those “To:/From:” tags you slap on Christmas gifts than sentimental cards, really. But then again, we were 6. Sentimental takes on a different meaning when you’re a half-portion of a person.

Nonetheless, there was still romance in these cards.

For one, if you received a card with the actual kid’s signature (as opposed to his mother’s failed attempt to write like an elementary-aged boy), well, that told you two things: either that mother had got her son on a really tight leash, or there is going to be some profound connection between you two during afternoon recess.

Signatures aside, though, the basic logic behind V-Day was quite simple: the more Power Rangers a girl had, the more admired she was. And if you were lucky enough to land the Pink Ranger, well, that was real love right there.

Needless to say, I was not lucky. This tradition most likely continued up until fifth grade. In those six years, the best ranger I had to my name was a hastily torn blue one.

But, no matter. Puberty doesn’t hit until middle school, right? So surely, my chances would improve then.

By Valentine’s Day in sixth grade, I was effectively a fully-grown, fully-mature woman (in my mind). I shaved my legs (!), wore a bra (!!) and generally acted grown-up and stuff.

So naturally, the puny sixth-grade boys, who were a good 2-3 inches shorter than me, did not pique my interest. Oh no, there was only one person that could afford my lustful gaze: Anthony Mancini.* (Yeah, I changed everyone’s name. But I promise, my version is just as guido-tastic as the real thing.)

He was the hottest boy in my class. And he was held back two years. So that basically made him an eighth grader.

Every girl wanted him. But no girl could have him. (I later found out why; I recently saw that he is in a relationship with one David Vesputti on Facebook.) But I digress.

I spent a good three hours and $30 at Michael’s preparing my Valentine. None of this construction paper crap other kids were coming up with. Oh no. This was a scrapbook-worthy masterpiece.

Feb. 14 came around. I was nervous all day. I kept opening my card, making sure I spelled “love” and “my pants” just right. And then, in my English class, during a pause, it arrived. The perfect moment. Just a casual slip and he’d have it.

And then it happened. Intercepted! She swooped in before I could blink, casually brushing my card on the floor. I bent to grab it, not even noticing who stole my man.

Looking up, entirely dejected, I realized there was a shape on his lap. A really big, slightly flabby, kind of hunched shape. My … my English teacher?

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Anthony,” the 75-year-old woman who didn’t believe in wearing pants with her t-shirts said. She tousled his spiky, gelled and frosted black hair. “I really don’t know how you get your hair to stick up like this. But I like it.”

It hasn’t gotten much better since. As I write, I’m sitting in Starbucks, grumbling into my double-tall vanilla latte about all the happy couples gazing into each other’s eyes, giggling over Frappuccinos and just generally not worrying about the 14th.

My bitter self hopes that they all choke on those chocolate hearts. I hope she loses the key to her fluffy handcuffs. And I hope that teddy bear he gets is laced with cyanide.

But, when I really think about it, I don’t want any of these things. It’s not a lot to ask for, but all I really want this Valentine’s Day is to get my first-ever Pink Ranger.

Cristina Stiller is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She may be reached at cstiller@cornellsun.com. Believe You Me appears alternate Mondays this semester.