I think traditions are important. They’re something to look forward to, comforting and special and your very own. Some traditions, like Valentine’s Day, feel less personal than others. Once middle school marked the end of decorating Kleenex mailboxes and painstakingly glueing pink construction paper hearts to doilies, I started to find Valentine’s Day more or less a disappointment. At worst, in college it was an excuse to drink. At best, a high-pressure “fancy” dinner with tables-for-two crammed so close together the atmosphere was about as intimate as a school cafeteria. But it turns out you get to make up your own traditions, silly ones, ones that don’t belong to everyone else. Like vegetarian General Tso’s tofu and cold sesame noodles on 64th and 2nd, surrounded by eighth graders on awkward dates, old men eating alone, entire families who would rather eat chicken and broccoli with their kids than get a babysitter just because of a Hallmark holiday. Last year on Valentine’s Day at China Fun I was vegan, employed, drinking a lot of enthusiastic Jack&Cokes, wearing an inappropriately short dress and too much makeup, and so deathly afraid of dating seriously that I spent ten minutes making origami out of the receipt in order to avoid eye contact. Things change. I’m immeasurably happier this year, better, healthier, not scared of anything. I still wore a much too short dress and made origami at the table. But now that’s just part of the tradition.