Call that a feast day?

Well, that was Valentine's Day. I realise that I'm not meant to care and should by this advanced age have cultivated the appropriate air of thorough-going disdain for the whole business. I haven't, of course, (maturity? moi?) and am gnashing my teeth with ill-temper at having received not one single solitary card, e-card, or even text-message. The only missives I had all day were from my mother, telling me about presents and pestering for news of similar largesse falling in my lap, and from my granny, telling me all about her roses, chocolates and lovely dinner out. Can it be right that my aged forebears revel in luxury and bask in adoration while I, a flourishing maiden in my prime, should trip downstairs to discover my matutinal doormat decked with not so much as a bank statement? That my evening hold nothing more romantic than a bag of crunchy cheetoes? That the sole hint of mystery in my day consist of attempting to decode Aeschylus' Agamemnon? (and quite mysterious enough it was, too).
Worse, not even my trusty exes came through, although there are at least a couple who can normally be relied on to do the good-ex thing and remind you that though it was never meant to be, you remain a goddess to them. Worse and worse, the morning's class was on the incomparable Catullus 64, which, while its brilliance cannot but be uplifting, could have done with being a bit less about weddings for my taste. That said, the real message of the whole work seems to be that if you are a nice girl and have a divinely and legally sanctioned wedding to a handsome and worthy hero, your issue will cause fathomless grief and wholescale bloodshed. If, on the other hand, you are an over-sexed harlot, you will devastate the bonds of family, law and public reputation, and cause wretched heartache to self and/or to the generation's greatest poet. So that's love, then. Perhaps I was better off with the cheetoes after all.