Annual Catch-22

The thought occurred to me this morning on my way to work from a breakfast meeting: Is there a more painful holiday for all "man"-kind than Valentine's day? I mean, sure, there are some experience painful and lonely Christmas/Thanksgiving/St. Patrick's Day celebrations on an annual basis, but there's not a holiday so loaded with potential disaster than is Valentine's Day.

Talk about a day that teeters on the brink of personal ruin! If you find yourself single on Valentine's Day, you get off light, but at what cost? The cost of reading this blog and finding yourself unable to relate to its further contents. That's bound to bring some kind of pathetic loneliness and leads invariably to a George-Jones type whimpering that ought to be heard from the lips of no man.

Here's the main problem I've encountered with Valentine's Day. The thing that really causes me to take umbrage at the celebration of a saint of whom history has recorded next to nothing. (In fact, the holiday actually celebrates 2--count 'em, 2--saints named Valentine). Here's my hangup with the Feb. 14 festivities: You, as a man, are bound to the purchasing of flowers--not just any flowers, mind you, dead flowers. That means that the apprehending of said merchandise must come as close as possible to the actual giving event.

That's why I say that this holiday teeters on the brink of disaster. What are men prone to do? Wait 'till the last minute. How long should you wait until you buy dead flowers, ensuring that you don't gently hand over a wilted mess? 'Till the last minute! That, my friends, teeters on the brink of disaster.