So what is love? It’s an unbuttoning of the self. Not an unbuttoning of the clothing covering your sexy self, but the reassurance that, without any camouflage, cover-ups or compromise, you’re safe. You’re in the presence of another person who would rather be with you than with anyone else.

It’s hard to talk about love because most of the time, we have no idea what we’re talking about. We mutter; we fumble; we blush; we purchase plush toys. None of it makes sense.

I talk for a living, but it’s still hard to talk about love, especially when it’s officially mandated by the calendar. (Men, of course, think Valentine’s Day is a woman-dated occasion.)

Love is inconvenient. Love is untidy. Love is relentless, ruthless and rapacious. Done well, it’s hilarious, playful and redemptive.

Love is a gift, and as such, it can't be earned.

One of the most puzzling aspects of love is its lack of justice. It’s unfair. Love can elude people who seem to deserve it while it’s heaped on those who appear to ignore it, run from it, or slough it off as too restrictive.