I work in a library. For several years, our “Sunshine Committee” organized a Secret Valentine’s program. February was usually grim and gray; we were all getting some cabin fever and getting on each other’s nerves, so we actually looked forward to a little bit of fun in the miserable midwinter.
Those participating drew names. The idea was that you could, for the seven days preceding Valentine’s Day, gift your Valentine with little remembrances, like a chocolate bar here, a note pad with funny sayings there… or maybe you just found a book on the shelf that your coworker might like, and you left it on the desk with a note.
Or you could wait until the last day and do one big fun presentation. There was also a small social tea so that gifters could identify themselves. It was fun, and people got super creative to stay within the (very generous for the time) ten-dollar budget.
People got very clever with gifts. One person walked in to find a display made up entirely of books whose titles featured his first name. Another had a special day announced during which people were encouraged to give her a smile. It was fun and it boosted spirits.
So, naturally, someone had to ruin it all.
Things began to go downhill in the fourth year of the event.
First, a young page who was participating for the first time got stiffed by her Valentine who had been leaving notes hinting at a big surprise at the end. And the big surprise was that… there was no surprise. Nothing. The kid was crushed, so the staff in her department quickly put together a “surprise” out of whatever they had received and whatever a few could find at the pharmacy across the street.
A female department head received a silk nightie, along with a collection of massage oils and, um, lubricants. And it was clear that the nightie had been worn at least once, as it gave off the unmistakable aroma of perfume and Eau de body sweat. She was too embarrassed to complain, but one of her employees went to the Sunshine Committee and suggested they put some kind of rules about the genre of gift to be given.
The next year, someone still refused to listen to the “no gifts that might be perceived as harassment” regulation. Another female employee received a type of panty usually gifted to a bride at a shower, body oils, and a hotel room key. Given that the key came from a hotel in a city where a certain oddball staff member had been staying for a week, everyone was pretty sure who was responsible, but the committee didn’t pursue it.
The next year, there was another more explicit description of what not to give. They thought they had covered all the bases, but they were wrong.
Another department head received a huge hanging plant, which was nice. But the item that came with it gave everyone pause: a framed picture of a bleeding human heart with the caption, “I’d kill for you.”
And thus ended a practice that had previously been nothing more than a fun way to bond with each other during a cold winter month. There is always someone out there looking to spoil what was meant to be a way to spread a little sunshine in dark places.
