It’s V-day plus one, and the world’s divided. Some smile smugly at the success of their love lives, while others wring their hands wondering what went wrong.

Me – I want to make a plug for banishing Valentine’s Day back to the Victorian age where it was born. Not only because it’s not fair to the gazillion people unhitched this time of year, but because it’s unromantic for the ones who are. It’s really not fun for anybody but kids. It’s not an equal opportunity holiday.

So this year, I asked my husband not to get me anything. Nothing. I didn’t want flowers. I didn’t want candy. I didn’t even want a card. He didn’t exactly comply, but close enough.

V-day is a day that makes most men quake in their boots wondering if what they’re doing to prove their love will earn them high marks or a month in the doghouse.

The smart ones – the lucky ones born or trained to pull their manly duties off without a hitch – go out and spend $50 on two dozen red roses and another $15 on a box of chocolates or jewelry, or a bag. You get my drift. They buy a pink flowery card. They take you out to dinner at a fancy restaurant with candles and make romantic conversation while you hold hands.

Not unromantic in itself, really, although I personally think red roses are ugly and don’t need the temptation of a box of chocolate on my kitchen table. … But I’m getting off track.

After the nice romantic dinner you’ll go home, and if you’re happy they’ll sigh a little sigh of relief they’ve successfully maneuvered through this potentially hazard-ridden holiday.

That is, unless they’re the unlucky kind, that is men – you know who you are – who were born sweet-natured but forgetful, who adore you but lumber through life never quite understanding the monumental significance of Feb. 14. Those poor, lost souls will either forget the day until midway through lunch and spend the rest of the afternoon sweating bullets and trying to do magic on the fly, or they’ll blunder it some other way, and they’ll suffer the consequences for weeks to come. The omission will be dredged up in fights about the dishes when, in a stalemate, she pulls out her trump card. “But YOU…FORGOT… VALENTINE’S DAY,” she’ll say, and then stare at him meaningfully, in baleful silence, until he slinks off, head hung low in shame.

Not equal opportunity for men, then, but I’d say it’s not all it’s cracked up to be for us women, either. For most women, at least in the beginning of a relationship, V-day can be the acid test of the strength of his adulation. But it doesn’t mean very much. For lovers of romance, unexpected kindnesses are always more fun.

Seriously, who wants flowers and candy and romantic talk when it’s expected he give them? How does it mean anything, at all?

I say the romance should be in the everyday, the thousand small things you both do to show you care. Compliments and good conversation before bed, fun weekend adventures, and the fact he remembers to check your transmission fluid on a frozen winter morning should mean more than what he does, or forgets to do on V-day, because it’s expected of him.

For my part, my hubby tends to carry out his V-day duties with aplomb, but I think it’s much nicer when he brings me flowers on normal days – daisies from the side of the road on a summer day or supermarket tulips when I’m itching for spring. It’s spontaneous, and it makes my heart flutter to know he thought of it all by himself.

When not lamenting the unfairness of Valentine’s Day, Maggie Gill-Austern is a Sun Journal reporter.