Valentines's Day is dangerous. It spreads the disease chick-flick-itis. Which fosters expectations of The Grand Gesture. Candy. Flowers. Poetry. A candlelit dinner. Jewelry. A lover sweeping you off your feet.

All that pressure, somebody's gonna get hurt.

I know it all too well. On our first Valentine's Day I almost killed my husband. Less than a month after our wedding.

Okay, a little too dramatic. What happened wasn't exactly life threatening. Unless you count Death by Humiliation.

Back Story
My husband is a former competitive gymnast. Muscular arms and shoulders. Taut butt and thighs. Perfect six-pack abs. (Well, okay, today the six-pack is, uh, more a keg).

Back then we had a little shtick: I'd lie on the floor stretched out stiff. He'd kneel on one knee --weightlifter 'ready' position-- slide his arms under me, stand up and "curl" me like a barbell. A 118-pound human barbell.

As a former chubbette, it made me feel light and wraith-like. Which I'll never be. Slim, yes, but still curvy, with my fair share of big girl parts. And truthfully, buried deep in my heart, still all big girl. 

Upper Back Story
That first Valentine's Day we were walking to the health club. Feeling young, strong, frisky. After our work-out we'd go to dinner, maybe dancing. Come home for some romance. Maybe before dinner too.

He was in he-man mode, said to me, "Assume the position." Yes, it has another meaning to us too. In this case, I knew he wanted to curl me.

Happy to help show off his prowess, I stretched out on the sidewalk. With testosteronic overconfidence he bent from the waist instead of using the correct kneeling stance. He started to lift me ... and let out a jungle howl of pain.

I hit the sidewalk on my butt, scrambled up fast because he was down, writhing in pain. And his face was turning blue!

He'd gotten a muscle spasm in his upper back so bad it was caving his chest wall forward, compressing his heart and lungs. I straddled him, leaned all my weight into my knees, pushed his shoulders down to keep his chest open, help him breathe.

Scared doesn't begin to cover it. Somebody called 911. Two guys came and held him flat. Still, he could take only tiny breaths.

I was terrified. And starting to feel serious guilt. All the angst of my overweight years filled my head, giving me a giant brain cramp. Oh no, I crushed my husband to death. In public!

Back In The E-E-ER Story
Defeaning sirens. Ambulance. My panicked heartbeat was louder than the sirens.

At the ER people lifted him onto a gurney, more animal howls of pain.  He'll die and it'll be my fault! Somebody straddled him, hands and knees pressing his shoulders back.

A small comfort -- at least I'd done the right thing on the sidewalk. 

They whisked him into the back and led me to a cubicle for the paperwork. I tried to stay calm, give coherent answers. We've only been married 3 weeks, so NO, I don't know his damn Social Security number!

Finished, I sat in the waiting room crying, wondering if I was about to become a widow. What if I literally broke his heart? Would I be arrested for assault? I was wildly over-reacting, but inside, I was also damn scared.

The walls were covered with hearts and cupids and Happy Valentine's Day banners. Yeah, right, I thought. Eat enough candy and you too can kill your husband ... with love.

The wait was an eternity. Especially to this guilty drama queen. Dead (Fat) Woman Walking. Well, sitting. But that's how I felt.

Suddenly I realized they hadn't asked my name. So how would they find me in this crowded place?

The Back End, Brief Nudity
A doctor poked his head out of the Inner Sanctum. "Is there a Sally here?" he called loudly. "Somebody named Sally?"

"I'm Sally!" I jumped up, rushed to the door. "My husband's in there, is he okay?" I was breathless with fear.

The doctor had a serious, bad news face. My heart sank. Oh, please, God, NO!

Then I realized his face was a little too serious, and his lips were twitching. He was trying not to laugh. Um, huh?

"You came in with the 'muscle spasm,' right?" he said,  obviously trying not to laugh. WTF?

"Yes, yes," I was getting impatient. "Is he okay?? Tell me, please!"

"He'll be fine. Come with me." As he led me toward the far end of the ER, I saw staffers grinning with amusement, some openly giggling. Really, I mean, really ... W. T. F. ?

"He's sleeping," the doctor was talking. I snapped to attention. "We gave him heavy meds to break the spasm. Rarely see one that severe." Oh sure, pile more guilt on my big fat killer conscience.

He coughed, clearly to cover a laugh. "We'll keep him overnight. You might want to get him a change of clothes." Another cough-laugh. More a laugh.

"Okay, sure." I was baffled. What the hell was so funny?

"They didn't get your name at sign-in," smiling widely, he pulled back the curtain to reveal my husband in drugged slumber, face down and naked, except for his briefs. "But we figured it out."

Then he lost it, everybody did, they were all laughing like hyenas.

W. T. F. ???

O. M. G. !!!  NOT. THOSE. BRIEFS!

    ^{(Not him, but close).}

I had a pair too, gag gifts from my sister Judy. I never dreamed he'd actually wear his. But apparently Valentine's Day inspired him to surprise me. And, as it turned out, an entire ER as well.

Not exactly the reaction he'd been anticipating. Or the romantic Valentine's Day he planned. My Prince Charming turned into a snoring Sleeping Beauty. All because I'd been the weighty Wicked Witch.

And trust me, our mothers and grandmothers were right. Don't ever leave home without wearing 'decent underwear.'

Even though he didn't listen, I'm so glad I didn't kill my sweet, romantic, ass-branded hero.

Bottom Line
Nobody needs a special garment or a special holiday to express love. And though I've wanted to kill him lots of times during 29 years of marriage, I also know true romance is best enjoyed when it's least expected.

My Real He-Man Hero back then, almost full disclosure...