We are now entering the sweat zone.

Or I should say, Better Half is now entering the sweat zone. Fume Exhaust

I’m doing just fine and getting great results from my antiperspirant, thank you very much.

But we’re into February now and well on our way to another Valentine’s Day, and this is troubling stuff for my husband to realize that once again, already, here it is time again for this ritual that involves pressure and a deadline and well, lots of sweating leading up to it.

Feb. 14 means the King of Clever, the Perfector of Punnyness, the Wielder of Wit must come up with, create, concoct, purchase or whatever an appropriate Valentine’s Day gift for his sweetheart, aka me, the weekly columnist who’s going to write all about it in this space.

So that makes his fate stretch out before him with two distinct scenarios — will he be shunned and shamed or will he be cheered and complimented?

Oh, I try to ease his pain and suffering, telling him, “Sweetums, don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You don’t need to make a fuss over little old me … unless you think it’s the right thing to do and worthy of your time …”

He has a lot to live up to, considering the gifts of years past, the offerings of his undying love and devotion.

For past Valentine’s Days, he got me:

≤ Two shovels because he double digs me.

≤ A broom because I “swept” him off his feet. (It now has very high mileage from my witchy moments of flying around on it and probably needs the bristles rotated if not replaced entirely. Perhaps it’s even time to trade it in for a new model. The broom, not me.)

≤ An electric pencil sharpener to make the “point” that I was his true love.

≤ A coffee pot that was “grounds” for marital bliss.

≤ Candy bars because he’s “sweet” on me.

≤ A dictionary to remind me that there aren’t enough words to declare his love.

≤ And let us not forget the year of the potato, when innocently from the potato bag he plucked one Idaho destined for french fry glory. And yet here it was, a potato shaped liked a heart, I kid you not. On it, he carved our initials in the framework of — you guessed it — a heart outline he also etched out ever so creatively.

“This ‘spud’s’ for you, honey,” his voice trembled with true love when he presented me with that one-of-a-kind potato.

≤ Then there was the year he “fell” for me — literally — on the ice on his way to buy me a present, so he claimed.

He ended up in the emergency room and returned home empty-handed, save for the doctor’s discharge instructions.

≤ He bought me a lamp I had admired at a flea market, thankful he got the “bright” idea to do so upon realizing that, hey, I really do light up his world.

≤ Another year, we got ourselves a joint Valentine’s Day gift — a big-screen TV. Nothing says love like getting the big picture together, right? (Of course, if we could only decide now what to watch, right?)

I, meanwhile, buy Better Half pistachios because I’m “nuts” about him or bread from the Steubenville Bakery because I love to “loaf” with him.

I know Better Half won’t disappoint me come 2023 Valentine’s Day, especially since I heard him mention the word karats, which I love.

Come to think of it, though, I’m not sure I’m crazy about the idea of wearing an orange vegetable on my ring finger.

It’s tough to wear gloves with those.

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