It’s probably not what you’d expect to hear from a married woman, but I’m happy to have made it through Valentine’s Day.
It’s not that I had overblown expectations, or that I was worried about potential disappointment. Valentine’s Day has never been a big deal for Hubby or me. We exchange cards and go out for a nice dinner, and that’s about it.
No, the true reason for my post-V-Day euphoria is this: I made it through our meal unscathed.
It’s not what you think.
I’m not dieting or on the wagon, so I wasn’t fighting food/alcohol guilt.
I wasn’t anxious about dining etiquette. I’m sufficiently domesticated that I don’t attract undue attention in a nice restaurant (at least not when I choose to summon up my table manners, which I should probably do a lot more frequently).
I might, perhaps, have a small social phobia left over from the time I donned my coat with a flourish in a fancy restaurant and knocked an entire pitcher of ice water off a ledge. And the ice water might possibly have landed on some other diners…
But that was a few decades ago and I’ve (almost) recovered from that.
I wasn’t even dreading the fact that I’d have to wear something other than my usual jeans and hiking boots. Believe it or not, I actually dressed up without whining. Alert the media!
No; mine was a more primal fear: The fear of pain.
And I’m proud to say I didn’t hurt myself through sheer gluttony.
I’d like to pretend that’s a joke, but it’s not.
Last year I actually physically injured myself. I stuffed in a magnificent meal and waddled out cradling my distended belly. Then I bent to get in the car and… pop! One of those horrible noises you hear in your gut instead of with your ears, and a lightning-bolt of pain.
Most normal people would put their backs out bending to get in a car. Not I. I’m ashamed to say my stomach was so full I snapped something (cartilage, muscle, who knows?) on my bottom rib. It took a couple of weeks before I could bear to lie on that side, and a couple of months for the pain to go away completely.
Honestly, I didn’t think it was possible to damage my skeletal structure with too much food. Give myself a stomach ache, sure; maybe rupture my gut if I really went overboard; but blow a rib…? I guess I’m just special.
Anyway, a few days ago we went back to the scene of the crime. And I bravely threw myself on the live grenade that is their menu – I had bread and an appetizer and an entrée and dessert. But I had two glasses of wine instead of the single one I had last year, and I’m convinced the subsequent relaxation was what prevented me from hurting myself again.
At least that’s going to be my excuse whenever I need to justify drinking an extra glass: Safety first!
Ah, the sacrifices I make… *sighs and assumes expression of courageous and noble martyrdom*
So whew. Made it through V-Day.
Anybody else have a V-Day survival story?