"It's true that it doesn't make sense straight off the bat that someone would shop for a Valentine's Day gift at Home Depot. But we do see a high volume of traffic just before the holiday." John Simley

There you go, from the Home Depot's mouth. Valentines's Day isn't about romance, it's about commerce. The economic, cynical marketing of romance. Pressuring men to make overblown fairy tale gestures. Encouraging women to don potentially humiliating and uncomfortable garments.

Everyone expecting too much. Candy. Flowers. Jewelry. A toaster oven. Oh, the pressure!

Don't. Buy. The. Hype.

It's only for a trumped up holiday which has nothing to do with lovers or love. In fact, a saint was killed on this day.

And --in the second month of our marriage-- my husband was almost killed too.

Well, not really, I took a little dramatic license there. What happened wasn't life threatening. Unless you count death by humiliation.

Back Story
My husband's a former competitive gymnast. When we married, he was still in tiptop shape. Outrageously muscular arms and shoulders. Tight, taut butt and thighs. Perfect six-pack abs. (Today the six-pack is in danger of becoming a keg).

We had a little shtick: I'd lie down, my body straight and stiff. He'd kneel on one knee --like a weightlifter in the 'ready' position-- slide his hands under my hips and shoulders, lift, stand up and "curl" me as if I were a barbell. A 115-pound human barbell.

Then I'd relax, drop into his arms in the more traditional boy-girl pose, wrap my arms around his neck and we'd kiss.

I know, acutely corny. But in our newlywed haze, just plain cute. And as a former chubbette, it made me feel tiny and wraith-like. Which I'll never be. Slim, yes, but still curvy, with plenty of big girl parts.

Upper Back Story
One day we were walking down the street toward our health club. Feeling young, strong, healthy, frisky.

He was in he-man mode, said to me, "Assume the position." Which has other meanings, yes, to us too. In this case, I knew he wanted to curl me.

I stretched out on the sidewalk all straight and tight. With testosteronic overconfidence he bent over to lift me instead of using the correct, safe kneeling stance. He started to rise with me in his arms ... and suddenly let out a jungle howl of pain.

It's a miracle he didn't drop me on my head. I hit the sidewalk on my butt, scrambled up quickly 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 shoulders inward and cutting off his air. I rolled him flat on his back, straddled him and leaned all my weight into my knees, pressing them on his shoulders to keep his chest open.

Somebody called 911. I was struggling to hold his shoulders down. Two guys came and held him flat. Even so, he could take only tiny breaths.

I was terrified. And starting to fill with guilt. All the angst of my overweight years came barreling down onto the slim real me and rode right over it. I was sure I had crushed my husband to death!

Back In The E-E-ER Story
Sirens. Ambulance. Voices. Curses as the EMT's realized the power of the spasm. A hand pulling me into the rig. Telling me hold on to that strap. Asking does he have any allergies. Penicillin, that's all I know.

Sirens again. They pass you in the street and you have to stop your conversation. Damn, they are so much louder on the inside. 

We pulled up to the ER and stopped. The sudden silence was almost as deafening.

New people, new voices, rolling a gurney, lifting him onto it, more animal howls of pain. Somebody straddled him on the gurney, pressing his shoulders back.

A small comfort -- I had done the right thing back there on the sidewalk. 

They whisked him into the ER and led me to an office for the inevitable paperwork. Insurance. Vital statistics. Address. Phone number. Mother's maiden name. Pet's eye color. Why do they need all that crap??

I tried to stay calm, give coherent answers. We've only been married 3 weeks, I don't know his damn social security number!

Finished, I sat in the waiting room, trying not to cry, wondering if I was about to become a widow. Would I be arrested for causing his death? I was wildly over-reacting, but inside, I was pretty scared.

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

I was debating whether to call our parents when I realized nobody had asked my name. I totally spaced on the idea of Mrs. Swift. As far as I was concerned, Mrs. Swift would always be his mother, not me.

So how would they find me in this densely crowded place?

The Brief Back End
Just then a doctor poked his head out the door from 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.

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

Then I realized he was checking me out, in a decidedly non-medical way. Noticed his face was a little too serious, and his lips were twitching.

"Your husband was brought in with the muscle spasm, right?" he said. Okay, he was clearly trying not to laugh. WTF?

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

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

"He's sleeping," the doctor was talking. I snapped back to attention. "We gave him some heavy meds to break the spasm. Never saw one that severe."

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

"Okay, fine. Sure, whatever you say." I was baffled. What the hell was so funny?

"You know, they didn't get your name at sign-in," he was grinning widely now as he pulled back the curtain to reveal my new 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!

They were a gag gift from my sister Judy. I never thought he'd wear them. Apparently Valentine's Day had inspired him to surprise me. And, as it turned out, the entire ER as well. (That's not him, but close).

The story became part of family lore. ER lore too. If only there were camera phones in 1982, I'd show you the real deal. The whole hospital would've seen the real deal. My romantic, he-man, ass-branded hero.

Bottom Line
Nobody needs a special garment or a special holiday to express love and devotion. After 27 years of marriage I can tell you that romance is best enjoyed when it's least expected.

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