For the last three weeks or more, these men have looked on with detachment as the women in their lives got on with the business of Christmas shopping.

They have watched the women go off to the stores alone or in small groups – these purposeful mothers, wives and daughters on their missions of good will – and have been there to welcome them home hours later with their armloads of holiday bags. They have nodded patiently as the lovely items are yanked one after another from the bags, impressed with the uncanny ability of their women to so perfectly match gifts with the people who will open them around the tree.

Now, with just a few days left before Christmas, the men know their time has come. No longer do they have the luxury of sitting back and waiting for the spirit of the season to kick in before they get themselves in gear. There will be no more trial runs, when they can waltz idly through the crowded stores to get a sense of what’s out there without feeling any pressure to actually buy something. And so, armed with credit cards and fierce determination, they head out into the night to do what must be done every year as the deadline approaches. They go the malls in search of gifts for the women in their lives, and in the process become the Lost Men of Christmas.

I have been keeping tabs on these men for several years now, ever since a female friend came up with a name for these bewildered male shoppers who are seen shuffling through the malls every year. The Lost Men are the grown-up versions of the Lost Boys from “Peter Pan,” who needed a mother to guide them through life’s tough times. For most of the year, they’re not lost at all. Many are actually confident husbands, sons, fathers and grandfathers, men who know what they’re up to. They only lose their way in the final shopping days before Christmas, when they must set off on their own into unfamiliar and hostile territory. Without a female to guide them through the labyrinth of crowded clothing stores, these unpracticed shoppers quickly lose their bearings. Soon, their heads pound from the endless string of Christmas songs. Their feet swell and ache. Their eyes can no longer distinguish colors and textures. All they learned the previous year about the devious system of women’s sizing is erased from memory. They are mariners adrift in a perfume-scented fog, far from home port.

A co-worker of mine said he spotted one in a packed Wal-Mart the other night. The poor guy was in the advanced stage of the Lost Man syndrome – beyond befuddlement and well into desperation. The man suddenly began ramming his shopping cart into the carts of every customer in his path, bellowing for them to get out of his way.

“I guess the guy couldn’t take the crowds anymore,” my co-worker reported.

Your average Lost Man, of course, would never resort to such aggressive behavior. He’s much more inclined to inertia, especially after the first hour or so of unproductive shopping. He often can be found slumped on a bench, sipping coffee and staring catatonically into the distance with heavy-lidded eyes. He is looking for inspiration that hasn’t struck since he bought those dangly earrings earlier in the evening. Now it’s late, and he wants to go home before he has to hear “Jingle Bell Rock” for the 100th time. And all he has to show for his efforts are some lousy earrings in a sweaty little bag he’s been carrying around forever, a pair of slippers exactly like the ones he bought his wife last year, and an oddly patterned sweater that a smooth-talking salesgirl got him to buy when he was too exhausted to think straight anymore.

Driving home, he consoles himself with the thought that keeps him going every year at this time, the Lost Man’s mantra: There’s always tomorrow, at least until Christmas Eve.