Perhaps I have unorthodox views on holidays. For me, Thanksgiving is a time for Star Wars marathons, not Macy’s parades. Christmas is for karaoke and Italian or Mexican or Barbecue feasts, not carols or ham.

On St. Patrick’s Day, instead of drinking green beer and celebrating my family’s Irish heritage, we tend to bury cats that have been either run over (by my mom, 1994) or frightened to death by my sister’s driving (1998). Hopefully, my two current cats can make it through this year’s celebration unscathed.

Easter is when I gorge myself on brisket. And Valentine’s Day . . . is a decidedly unromantic opportunity to score a midwinter gift from the parents.

As a perpetually single woman, I have fallen victim to the agony of Valentine’s Day. But I would prefer not to think of my romantic status on this fine February day. I prefer to think of the time two people reached out and touched my soul. The day they gave me a Valentine’s Day when I felt truly loved.

It was third grade. As a feisty 9-year-old, Valentine’s Day meant nothing to me except the opportunity to decorate a shoebox and give valentines to all my friends. On this particular Valentine’s Day, I woke up and engaged in the usual Ramsey morning debate.

“I’m too sick to go to school,” I whined. My mother, being my elementary school’s secretary, never bought it. “But it’s Valentine’s Day, you get to have a party,” she said. This was enough to convince me.

As I finally made my way downstairs, I saw a brightly wrapped package on the table. All lies about sickness vanished as I ran to the table to rip into the wrapping paper and find out what oddly-shaped object my parents had decided to bestow upon me. Bits of paper fell around me as I unveiled my gift, a gift that really showed how much my parents loved me and made me feel loved: a shiny, blue Skip-It.

It was perfect, bright blue and complete with a counter. It gleamed under the kitchen table light. Unable to contain myself, I grabbed the Skip-It and ran into the garage. I was supposed to leave for school in minutes, but I couldn’t wait. I needed to Skip-It and I needed to Skip-It now. I carefully slipped my Jelly-adorned foot into the jagged plastic hoop. I pulled up my sock so as to not acquire injury from the plastic rubbing repeatedly on my little ankle (Yes, I was wearing Jellies with socks. It was February.) I set the counter to zero and prepared for my first skip. I took a deep breath, jerkily swung my leg and jumped with my other. I was in heaven.

I skipped until Secretary Ramsey dragged the Skip-It off my foot and sent me off to school, promising I could skip until the counter broke when I got home. For the rest of that Valentine’s Day nothing else mattered. It didn’t matter that my third- grade crush didn’t give me a valentine. All that mattered was that my parents had given me something truly special. Sure, I was in third grade, but I didn’t need a significant other to enjoy Valentine’s Day.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve had my fair share of bad Valentine’s Days. In seventh grade, my boyfriend gave me a dozen roses and then broke up with me two days later for someone else. In high school, on four Valentine’s Days, I watched in envy as my friends got “crush cans,” flowers and singing telegrams delivered to them in class. Even last year, excited about the prospect that Valentine’s Day may not translate to Italy, I was subjected to beautiful Italians making out on bridges all to the tune of Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore.” Despite these ill attempts at a more traditional romantic Valentine’s Day, my parents and friends have always been there. I have an incredible family that loves me more than anything and friends who like me a lot, too, and for that, I am thankful. And although Skip-It and I have long since parted ways, I have always remembered how it made me feel: loved and valued. So, to Skip-It, wherever you are, I will always love you. And, Skip-It, I know you will always love me back.