Valentine’s Day, 2006. I was only 17 years old-a high school senior. It was a Tuesday night, and my then-boyfriend of about two years took me out to dinner. I remember getting back to his house and him stopping me in the driveway, getting down on one knee and proposing. It was a clear night, and the moon was out. You could see every star in the sky. I made that sound much more romantic than what it really was. Before that night, I had already picked out my engagement ring, we had already booked the church and he had already talked about popping the question. So needless to say, I knew it was coming.

Of all the creative ways to propose to someone you claim to want to spend the rest of your life with-including skywriting the words on a sunny day or popping the big question in front of family and friends-he asked me in his driveway.and on Valentine’s Day. How original. He couldn’t even come up with something a little more inventive than stopping me in front his garage door, awkwardly getting down on one knee and asking me to be his wife in a robotic, rehearsed tone of voice.

I got engaged to a liar and cheater that Valentine’s Day.

Valentine’s Day, 2007. I was married then, and it was a Wednesday. My then-husband was already in Anchorage, Alaska, serving his country. And I was still at home, finishing up my year in college before moving up North with him in the summer. He sent me a dozen roses, as though that would make up for his absence.

We were 3,000 miles apart, and I tried to pretend it wasn’t Valentine’s Day that Valentine’s Day.

Valentine’s Day, 2008. I had been in Anchorage for about eight months. I spent three weeks alone, as my then-husband was away on business in Georgia, cheating on me with a 34-year-old woman he met in a bar. He called once, but all we did was breathe over the phone.

The days were short, and the snow accumulated quickly, making it seem darker and colder than it really was. I kept the Christmas tree up through February so that I had some joyful sentiment remaining in the house. My toy poodle was my only companion. I cooked a meal for one and spent the night watching Audrey Hepburn grace the television screen as Holly Golightly, Princess Ann and Jo Stockton.

I fell asleep alone on the couch for the 14th day in a row while my then-husband held another woman that Valentine’s Day.

Valentine’s Day, 2009. My marriage was over by then, and I had moved on to Mr. Not-So-Perfect and then to Mr. Big. We did what every normal couple did on Feb. 14-dressed up, went to dinner, caught a movie and fell asleep. But that’s all I remember. I couldn’t tell you where we ate, whether we exchanged gifts, what movie we watched, if we had sex or whether we were happy or annoyed with one another. I suppose it’s no surprise, since it wasn’t long after that that we fell apart. Perhaps we had already fallen apart at that point. That would explain the amnesia.

I did nothing worth remembering that Valentine’s Day.

I’ve spent Valentine’s Day with cheaters; I’ve spent it alone; I’ve spent it with my dog; I’ve spent it with men I didn’t belong with. And looking back on my last four Valentines, I realize Feb. 14 isn’t about the flowers and candy, how much money he spends or whether he can tolerate a chick-flick. It’s about the company-who you choose as your Valentine.

This year, skip the fine dining and the fancy dating ploys (red roses are overrated, anyway) and just find someone who makes you happy (whether that be a friend or a significant other). The rest will fall into place. After all, you can dine in the finest restaurant, receive a shiny piece of jewelry and go home in a nice convertible, but none of these things are worth remembering without having someone special to share the memory with.