What's Love Got To Do With It?

I am not bound, this year, by the chains of romantic love. I'm not "in love" with anyone; more important, no one is in love with me. So, I am without Valentine's Day responsibilities. Having been married, betrothed or--yes--cocooned in cohabitation for all but a few seasons of my adult life, I'm still getting used to this delicious freedom. No one is expecting anything from me--not even a card, much less a Godiva sampler. I need lay no sacrifice on the altar of love.

St. Valentine himself (and, actually, there was more than one) had little to do with romantic love. Historically, Valentine was a Christian martyr, jailed for his religion by pagan Roman emperor Claudius II. In conversations, Claudius II tried unsuccessfully to convert Valentine to his gods, but Valentine instead tried to convert Claudius to Christianity, and for this was executed. Before his execution, he is said to have performed the miracle of giving sight to the jailer's blind daughter. Hence his sainthood.

Since there's little romantic fodder in this, the history has been embellished and may or may not be true. Claudius II, believing that married men made poor soldiers and wishing to grow his army, ordered that young men remain single. Valentine, a priest, subverted this law, secretly marrying young men and women. It was this romantic outlawry for which Valentine was supposedly imprisoned in the first place. Nevertheless, don't blame St. Valentine's Day as we know it on St. Valentine. Blame Geoffrey Chaucer.

In Parliament of Fools (1382), Chaucer wrote: "For this was Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate." The poem was written to honor the first anniversary of the engagement of King Richard II to Anne of Bohemia (they were both 15 when wed). Shortly thereafter, in 1400, a High Court of Love was established in Paris to deal with violations of the code of courtly love, specifically betrothal contracts, betrayals and violence against women. The judges of this court were chosen by women on the basis of a poetry reading, and things haven't been the same since.

The notion of courtly love itself grew out of medieval knighthood's code of chivalry. Sir Knight carried Milady's favor--a scarf or scrap of cloth--into battle, as often as not tied around his lance (any Freud-inspired jokes that might blossom here in a reader's mind are entirely the reader's responsibility, but we might assume this is also the root of what we today call "sexual favors"), to remind him of whom and for what he was fighting. Hence the phrase "undying love." Sir Knight is vowing that the only way his love will die is if he does. If then. Milady will wait, faithfully, forsaking all others, yearning for his return and warming herself with the torch of his love until he does. And if he does not, their love is bound in heaven.

Which, somehow, transports us to the mall, where you are a man, wondering what the hell to buy. Unless you have the talent to design one yourself, complete with customized sentiments and perhaps a coupon redeemable for something that is your business, a simple card won't cut it. And even if you have the talent, you can only get away with that once. Most don't, and "Love Ya, Honey" scrawled in crayon on a construction paper heart is only cute in kindergarten. Flowers are a reliable stand-by, but don't rely on them. Or at least not solely. As a man of some experience in these things, save the flowers for occasions when they are not expected. (Note: as a substitute for flowers, do not get her a potted plant, calling it a symbol of the sturdiness of your love. I know--plants don't wither in a week--but a plant requires regular care and she's already taking care of you. Don't remind her of that. Wrong message.) Do not get her a filmy construction of sweet nothing from Victoria's Secret. She may admire it and even enjoy modeling it, but deep down, she knows it's really for you. And so do you. For goodness' sake, do not buy her chocolates. Of course she likes chocolate--who doesn't?--but plan ahead. Do you want this to be you? "Here's a big old heart--just like mine--full of chocolates. Next year, I'll buy you a WIDE LOAD sign and a little beeper so you can let folks know when you're backing up." And never mind the sales pitch tsunami--do not get her a teddy bear. Sure, she likes things that are cute and cuddly and remind her of babies, but she herself is not an infant. Do not get her pajamas--they're nothing more than Appalachian-style long johns with feet--but if you do, make sure they also have a trapdoor seat for those extra cold mornings in the outhouse. Basically, you're left with jewelry, which for most men is like being marooned, incommunicado, on a barren planet. With jewelry (where even the cheap stuff costs more than candy), the line between good taste and bad is invisible and the odds do not favor you. Nor can the salesclerk be trusted, so proceed at your own risk and be prepared to leave behind a limb.

Here's a better idea. Remember her in some small way, of course, but this St. Valentine's Day, give her back yourself. With the flowers that die, give her a man that never quits. With the see-through teddy designed to get your attention, give her a guy that pays attention. With the candy, give her sweetness; with the teddy bear, tenderness; with the footie pajamas, security. More than a costly investment of a bauble of rare stone, she wants to know that someone exists that is fully invested in her. Don't give her words on a card, give her facts on the ground.

Do you like being a man? Then be one--in full--but it takes courage. You want to wear the pants? Then put them on, one leg at a time, and get busy. Do you want to lead a family into the future? Then lead. No one's stopping you but yourself. A woman will follow--and fight ferociously alongside--a righteous man (and here I am not speaking of religion). Are you saddened by the cheapness of sex, the emptiness of promises made by vendors, politicians and lovers, and the godawful gaudy tawdriness that suddenly seems to lie at the heart of things? Then make a difference, as an army of one. Do you wonder why all the ladies seem to have vanished from the world? Do you wish that chivalry wasn't dead? Then stop your crying and be a knight. The world does not lack for dragons. Nor women who would love to be ladies.

All that said, my best wishes go out today to all who are in love. Love is a madness every bit as potent as its evil twin grief, taking us out of ourselves and persuading us to behave oddly and do things out of the ordinary--and sometimes outside our interest. But it is a fine madness. Like grief, love shatters mundane existence and tells us the truth: we are not meant to be alone. We're not made that way. Indeed, we are made for heaven, of which romantic love provides a taste and vision. What's love got to do with it? Everything--and I don't care what it is. So, lovers, I salute you. Use this day to remember the passion and promises that brought you together. And what God has made, let no one rend asunder. I am not in love today. I am free of chains. I have no promises to keep. But I wish I did, and I wish I was.