The reason men aren't good at Valentine's Day is because a man in love---and every man, at most every moment of his life, is deeply in love with someone---is absolutely, instinctively convinced that no one but he has ever loved with his infinitely sublime ferocity. The emotions of a man's love are to him so powerful, so riveting, so blinding, so passionately personal that he finds almost physically repelling the idea that they should be turned into fodder for (of all things!) commercial profit.

So to  a man, Valentine's Day is like being gutted. If Hallmark made a big red Valentine's Day Massacre card, men would buy them like hotcakes. Because that's pretty much what every Valentine's Day feels like to a man.

To a woman, love (sometimes) means getting dressed up and going out with her man to a fancy restaurant.

To a man, love (always) means sitting on the couch, watching TV, and just knowing that the love between he and his woman is so deep, intense, and permanent that as far as he's concerned the only thing talking about it can possibly do is degrade it.

And if that man is told that on a certain day he has to act just like every other man, and do exactly what he's supposed to do, which is to essentially prove his love---or, worse, display his love---in the exact same way that every other man in the world is displaying his love?

Forget it. Instead of a cute little Cupid arrow, you might as well spear him through the heart with an Actual Crossbow.

I would like to say more on this matter---but, alas, I must away, to arrange into an enticing display a dozen red roses, some chocolates, and a bottle of Mumm's champagne.

When it comes to matters of the heart, I'm as dense as any other man. But I haven't been married for 28 years for nothing.


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Related post o' mine (written last Valentine's Day): Love is a Many Splinterd Thing.

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