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?