I Cupid, officially announce my retirement as the mascot of Saint Valentine’s Day. Given this is an occasion to celebrate romantic love, as a chubby baby I feel I can no longer embody this carnal desire without it being super weird and extremely creepy.
When I first took this job, I was Eros, God of Love, as portrayed by a grown-up man with grown-up man parts. In Greece, I was a sexy guy, walking around in my fit, naked body, falling in love with Psyche and stuff. But the Romans came along and turned me into a putto with fat leg rolls. So here I am, a 2,000-year-old neonate charged with shooting people with sex arrows so they can go off and screw each others’ brains out. It doesn’t seem right.
Frankly, I’m embarrassed it took me this long to figure it out. But given the current climate, I think we should’ve collectively realized it wasn’t appropriate for a baby to be the patron saint of fucking.
There are also lots of logistical challenges when you put a baby in charge of romance. I never developed object permanence, so when someone leaves my vision, I no longer think they exist. Then I shoot someone else with an arrow, and, long story short, that’s how a lot of orgies got started.
Most of my peers were given more age-appropriate roles. Just look at any Renaissance painting. They’re in charge of holding sashes or playing trumpets and lutes. Sometimes they just sit on walls, looking cute. Classic baby stuff. Me? I was given a dangerous weapon and told to make split-second decisions about which two people should be soul mates. It’s like, Listen, dude, I’ve spent hundreds of years trying to walk without holding onto the edge of the coffee table. I’ve got a lot on my plate.
I don’t want to leave anyone in a bind, so I have a couple of ideas about who could be my replacement. First choice, Bacchus. He makes a lot of sense because he’s already in charge of wine, which is the official sports drink of V-Day. He also oversees “sensual pleasures,” and I’ve never really understood why that was a separate thing from love. It just seems like a lot of unnecessary bureaucracy. Also, he’s a super-fun dude and would really run with the job and make it his own.
Second choice, relationship expert Dan Savage. I know he’s not part of the Pantheon, but he could provide insight into whether two people are actually a good match. That’s a major upgrade from my strategy of impaling people in the butts without their consent. That tactic worked better in ancient times, when like ten people lived in a village, so the Vegas odds were pretty good I’d pick the right person. Now there are six billion people who all lead very complicated lives, and knowing what they need in a relationship is way beyond my paygrade.
TBH, I’m also tired of being pigeonholed into one role, like the actress who plays Flo in those Progressive commercials. It’s time for this baby angel to spread his wings and rediscover what it means to be a man angel. Like my buddy Gabriel, announcing the birth of Jesus like a straight-up baller. Or the Archangel Michael. But not the bible version, the John Travolta version from the 1996 movie Michael. Because I want to smoke and go to bars and dance in a way that’s kind of churchy but also kind of like the dance from Pulp Fiction.
They say, “don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened.” I cry a lot, mostly because I’ve had colic since the Middle Ages. But I also smile a lot because I cannot seem to break the annoying habit of mimicking adults’ facial expressions.
So I bid you farewell, waving backwards toward my own face because I know you all love it when babies do that. I also want to let you know that, ultimately, you don’t need me to find love. Because there are literally hundreds of dating apps that do what I do. And using them is less creepy because it doesn’t involve an infant hovering over you while you have sex. Instead, the NSA and Google will simply monitor you from inside your phone, recording everything you do.
Happy Valentine’s Day!