Valentines Day is breathing down my neck like a hound chasing a rabbit. Through the briars. Across the sawgrass bottoms. Down the tractor path. Through the pines. And back into the briars.

I don’t mean to speak disparagingly of romance at all. It’s just that to put a pin on any particular day of any particular month, and then hang a boat load of romantic, sensitive, and sweet expectations on that pin is a lot of pressure for some of us male types.

Because, basically, I suck at Valentines Day.

St. Valentine, so my version of the story goes, was a third century priest who preferred to honor love over war. He could have been part of any college protest almost anywhere in America in 1969.

The emperor needed young men for his army. Single men. Seems there was a quirk in the Roman law that prevented his army from sending married men into battle. And if you couldn’t fight you were of no use to the emperor.

What made St. Valentine so popular is that it became widely known that he would secretly marry any young couple in love to prevent the emperor from getting his hands on her man. But word also got to the emperor who did not look so favorably on Valentine and had him executed for treason.

The masses called him the champion of love, a legend for all time.

I call him the father of commercialized romance. The retail projections for Valentines Day this year go slightly north of $29 billion. I mean let’s admit it. You saw the red hearts and candy hit the store shelves before the after-Christmas sales were done, just like I did. The commercial industry markets romance for a profit.

And look, we really can’t be sure that every potential soldier who approached St. Valentine about helping him and his bride to unite their love had honorable intentions. Maybe he just used the occasion to keep from having a sword rammed through his chest. We all know that romance has many faces that are dressed up as love.

Before I get in trouble with my own Sweet Valentine, let me assure you that I am not against romance. I am in favor of love, affection, roses, and scented candles. Not necessarily in that order, but probably.

The trouble is that no matter how far in advance I start thinking about Valentine’s Day I always fail to do anything about it until the last minute. I’ll tell myself, “I’ve got to do better,” yet I do nothing. I always say on February 15th that I’m gonna pay more attention this year. I’ll listen to her. I’ll drop hints in July. And somewhere along the way I’ll come up with the perfect Valentines gift.

Come February 13th the next year, I’m standing in front of the Valentine’s card rack at the grocery store with no idea about what I’m gonna do. Not even Amazon can save me.

I think part of the reason that I am so undisciplined when it comes to this is that I want her gift to be personal. I want it to have something meaningful behind it. I want it to have some connection to the love and life that we share. A box of chocolates and a handful of grocery store flowers just doesn’t cut it. Plus I know she doesn’t care that much for flowers.

Men tend to buy practical gifts. Birthdays. Christmas. Valentine’s Day.

I thought about buying her a 20V Milwaukee Impact Driver. She would get a lot of use out of something like that being handy and adventurous like she is. It’s red, the color of a Valentine’s heart. But she already has one.

I thought about something to go with her Bubba Grill. Yes, that’s the real name of her mammoth, tow-behind cooker/smoker. She loves cooking on that thing. I love eating what she cooks. But I just gave her something for the grill at Christmas. She might start thinking I love her cooking more than her.

When you think “practical” at our age, it’s tough. She has about anything she really needs. If she sees something she likes, she has the means to buy it if she wants. And most times she does. Which leaves me with little wiggle room to get her something she doesn’t already have.

Besides, practical is not exactly romantic. I’m not that lame. I don’t think a new attachment for the leaf blower is gonna meet the standard test of love’s true expression.

I really felt the pressure a couple of weeks ago. I was on the road headed to her house when my phone rang. It was her.

“Where are you at?”

“I’m probably 5 minutes from your house.”

“Well, slow down. Go the long way. Whatever. I’m about 5 minutes from the house and I need time to unload my truck before you get there.”

“Wouldn’t it make sense for me to be there to help you unload your truck?”

“No.”

“I know you’re independent and all, but ‘no’, really?”

“I’ve got your Valentine’s present in the truck, and I don’t want you to see it.”

And there it is. She’s organized. She plans ahead. She executes the plan. And she brings home the perfect gift that says, “I love you.” It’s in a box on the back seat and I guarantee you that she got the idea months and months ago while we were doing something totally unrelated to this upcoming holiday.

Because she pays attention like that. I’ve never known anyone who always seems to know exactly how to give gifts that fit the person every time. And it’s not just for me. Almost anywhere we go, she’ll pick up some little item off the shelf and talk about how it would be perfect for one of her friends, or for her daughter, or for one of the guys in the wood turners club.

That’s the pressure I live under. I’m not saying it’s her fault. So, don’t hear what I’m not saying. I’m just saying that I acknowledge the disparity between my love for her and my ability to follow through on the gift that lets her know how much.

By the time you read this I’ll probably be standing in front of the Valentine’s card rack at Ingles. Me and fourteen other guys with the same look of desperation on our faces. The same empty hands. The same dull mind. The same hounds barking in our ears.

I love her. God knows I do. She has given me more reasons to love our life together than I can recount to you. She came along at the perfect time. We have so much in common, it’s ridiculous. We laugh. We dance in the kitchen. We enjoy working side by side. We get tickled at unexpected gastrointestinal explosions. We get up early together. We dream together. We pray together.

But I still hear the hounds.

Wish me luck. I’ll have a gift come Saturday. I might even have her favorite candy. I’ll even ask her those romantic words…

“Will you be mine?”

To which she’ll tenderly reply, “You again?”