Valentine’s Day for me has had a somewhat sordid recent history. This year I’m going anti, and doing a girl’s weekend in Dallas. Some Houston-based, SMU-graduate associates of mine still have friends in the area, and I’ll be reuniting with two Texan sorority sisters. (One of them just “went officially Dallas,” as she put it, and gifted herself a new pair of perkies. This weekend will be their first on the town, and I’m thrilled my curiosity might finally be satisfied — I figure I can touch one of hers.)

While I’m sure this weekend will be a success (how could we go wrong with a girly Uptown love-fest broken up with Central Market’s chocolate festival?), the last few years have been considerably less romantic.

Feb. 14, 2006: I was a freshman in college totally enamored with a senior boy I had met at a tailgate. (Creepy moment of full disclosure: Through the magic of then-recent Facebook, I had made his face my desktop picture before I even secured the first date. I thought he was dreamy.) It all went well for four months or so — we even had a post-Valentine’s weekend away planned — until it didn’t. Trying to be a gentleman, he refused to have the break-up conversation until after Valentine’s Day.

Despite my best efforts to instigate a blow-up, interspersed with interminable silences, we made it through the day as a couple intact. I spent my evening playing beer pong with his roommates while he filled out FAFSA forms, no doubt plotting his escape to graduate school.

We broke up Feb. 15.

Feb. 14, 2007: I was between boyfriends, in turns aggressively flirting with and completely ignoring the one I would date for the next two years. His patience was almost spent at this point, but he buckled and called me, anyway. I walked the 30 yards or so to his fraternity house, picked my way through the throngs of groping partiers and stole a disgruntled kiss before retreating to my all-girl fortress.

(It would take another month to make it official, “the talk” actually being the result of frat brother competition. Mitch told him he was “pretty sure” I was his girlfriend and looked to me for confirmation, which I sheepishly provided in a crowded fraternity hallway.)

Feb. 14, 2008: Now having secured me as an official girlfriend, my boyfriend took me for couple’s Chipotle. It was buy one, get one free. I got the free burrito.

Feb. 14, 2009: After making my disapproval of Valentine’s Day ’08 known campus-wide, the boyfriend conceded to take me out for a steak dinner. It was totally lovely, and I was impressed; finding out he selected the restaurant because he had a coupon diminished my appreciation only slightly.

Then it was off to his apartment (still just down the street from mine, though we had both moved off-campus) to down cherry bombs mano-a-mano before hitting Big 12 Bar & Grill for $3 pitchers and the inevitable accompanying game of “macho mug.”

Given my history, this year is bound to be more romantic. Dallas' wretched weekend weather just begs for sharing forks in front of the fireplace. Who knows, this year with the girls might be my best V-day yet.

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This just in: Tulips on my desk at the CultureMap office. Either this has been planned for a while, or the Chipotle anecdote really hit home. (I kid; It's the former.)

Thank you, Mitchy.