Unfortunately for me,
Valentine’s Day comes during a time of year in which I don’t do well. I’ve said
before that the only good thing about February is that it isn’t January, but
let’s face it: they’re not all that different.
The best way to describe
most men on this dedicated-to-love holiday is: epic fail. This is two steps
beyond complete fail, which is itself three steps below just fail. As a result,
any store that’s open the morning of Valentine’s Day is sure to see an influx
of desperate, rather dazed looking men, searching for flowers or chocolate. If
they can’t find a place open with Valentine chocolate, there’s always the
corner convenience store.
“Let’s see … what’s more
romantic, Baby Ruth or Milky Way? Say, do you have any wrapping paper here? No?
I’ll just use the real estate listings, they’re a little colorful.”
My wife is not a fan of
flowers, and is allergic to milk chocolate. She also doesn’t like to go out to
eat, citing the expense and the crowds on a holiday. At first glance that seems
like a great thing. But it takes away all the emergency “I’m in trouble”
backups.
Now, you may be thinking,
“But Mark, what does she get you for
Valentine’s Day?”
If you’re thinking that,
you’re a man.
Valentine’s Day, like
weddings, is for the woman. The man’s job is to show up, look fairly nice, and
make her the center of the day. With weddings men can usually focus just well
enough to handle that for a day, having been around the planning stuff for
months beforehand. With Valentine’s Day, the word “planning” puts them on life
support.
I love my wife. I wouldn’t
have married her if I didn’t love her. The idea of marriage for convenience ignores
the fact that making a successful marriage isn’t convenient at all. And yet, as
each holiday approaches, I utterly freeze up. I stink at shopping. I stink at
picking out cards. And—this coming from a man who actually writes romantic
comedies—I stink at being romantic.
The fact that most men
have the same affliction is in no way an excuse.
At least, that’s what I
assume my wife would say, if I was dumb enough to ask her.
My conclusion—and guys,
you can all benefit from my hard-won wisdom—is this:
Being a man is no excuse.
Suck it up, fellas. If, like me, you can’t seem to function during winter, try
this: Go out in the summer and buy a bunch of generic presents. It’s your job
to find out what your wife likes, I can’t help you with that. Figure it out,
buy a bunch of them, and hide them away somewhere. When you hit that inevitable
panic point—and you will—and realize the holiday happens to fall on a Sunday
and there’s no store close enough for you to sneak out to, don’t gift her a
zippo lighter from the Sunoco station. No, break into your horde of presents,
and—surprise!—you’re a hero.
That’s what I’m going to
do. Next year. This year, wish me luck.
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| "Yes, I promise to try to remember ... what was I supposed to remember?" |
