My construction paper Valentine's Day mailbox was completely full by the time I peeked inside. I was the fastest girl in all of Mrs. McKay's fourth grade class, having been clocked with the best 50-yard dash time (except for Celia Hanley, but she was my best friend so that was okay). Because I was so fleet of foot, I was the first one finished handing out all those valentines I'd made.

So full! Fourth grade teachers invent the best traditions: Give a valentine to everybody if you're going to give one to anyone at all. I'd stayed up until 11 the night before finishing my hand-made valentines, thinking of just the right thing to put on Rolf Lundmark's pink, red and white heart. Mushy stuff probably wouldn't work. But I had to think of something special.

Rolf was the most popular boy in all of fourth grade, and that included every fourth grade class at Belvedere Elementary school. In third grade, a bunch of friends had gotten together and paid Rolf (I think it was about $5) to make a list of his favorite girls in the class. That note was passed around the whole class, and my name was at the top of the list! So he must really like me, right?

Sifting through my box, I got to three of those owl valentines first. You know, the ones that say, "It'd be a HOOT if you'd be my Valentine!" They're the friendship valentines that card companies need to make so that you don't have to worry about people getting the wrong idea. Turtle valentines are pretty good for that, too, as I recall.

I tossed aside the cards until I finally found Rolf's valentine. A bear. Sigh.

We went to see Supergirl together later that year. Of course, he went with my friend Celia and I was with Benjy Cook. I kept the bear valentine, though.

Nancy E. Greene '95 is design editor of The Crimson. We asked her to write because she runs as fast as the wind.

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Alessandra M. Galloni

On February 14, nobody could wait until lunch period. Only then were the rubbery hot dogs and soggy ice cream sandwiches accompanied by an extra sweet dessert--a carnation (or two) sent via the high school student council.

It was quite an affair--for days everyone filled out order forms during homeroom for red (love), pink (secret admirer) and white (friendship) carnations, and mused over sappy messages to wrap around the (by the time they got to you) withering little flowers.

Inevitably, the reds held the most prestige and generated the greatest envy. The pinks triggered endless whispers and speculations in the locker rooms. And a fragrant assortment of reds and pinks was a true symbol of status and reputation.

And the whites? They peppered the hallways and sat on most trays, but they carried little distinction.

This week, red and pink have consumed our thoughts. Love and lust and romance (or lack thereof) has been on everyone's mind. Many conversations have been complaints, lamenting the absence of a significant someone with whom to share an intimate moment, a tender kiss, or an amorous evening.

Boyfriends and girlfriends have planned romantic evenings and hesitant admirers have decided to reveal their long-kept secrets.