I am in love with this man! No, I haven’t gone all Padma Lakshmi, and suddenly developed a thing for middle-aged, pudgies in favor of fit and handsome Mr. MILF. But as one with a creative endeavor that exists more as an outlet than an earning platform, I love how Lewis Hyde lends scholarly justification to my vain existence. According to a deceptively skippable profile in The Sunday Magazine, Hyde is revered by David Foster Wallace, Margaret Atwood, Bill Viola and tons of other major talents for the same reason — even if those people buy Hampton houses with their book advances, while I spend Mr. MILF’s hard-earned paycheck on things like a YSL Matisse dress at the Vintage Show over the weekend (yes, it’s to die). In his 1983 manifesto, “The Gift,” Hyde set out to explain why he devoted so much energy to something as nonremunerative as poetry. Based on the idea of ancient gift economies, in which the person of greatest consequence gives away the most goods, Hyde’s masterpiece argues that “unlike a commodity, whose value begins to decline the moment it changes hands” — think clothes — “an artwork gains in value from the act of being circulated — published, shown, written about — from being, at its core, an offering.” So, not to get all pukey, but by that measure, you and I, dear reader, are participating in a Hydean gift exchange. I blog, you read. How high-concept, holiday-season recessionista is that?