Young, completely infatuated with a 6’4″ hunk-of-a-man, and armed with a custom-made Valentines Basket filled with all the accessories for a night of torrid passion, I eagerly awaited our first Valentine’s Day together.  I had been planning for weeks and, like any good girl scout, I was prepared. 

That year Valentine’s was a rainy day, but the sounds of the storm would make the perfect backdrop for my envisioned romantic experience.  Because it was a Tuesday, that morning I was off to work and in normal “can’t-wait-until-I-get-out-of-here,” 20-ish girl mode.   By mid-morning, my belly was aching.  What had I eaten?  After a run to the ladies’ room, I feared that my stomach wouldn’t settle in time for my hot date.  No stomach ailment was going to get between me and my lovah.

By lunch time, I was burning up.   My boss, who by the way is a woman and should be understanding about hot nights o’ naughty, was being tough on me.  She assumed that I must be faking the illness as an excuse to get off of work early to get ready for my big night.  Doubtful of my honesty about being sick, she sent me to corporate to deliver some paperwork. 

While driving on the rainy streets of Southern California, I started to double over in pain.  I didn’t quite understand it because there was nothing left in the belly.  I am not sick.  I am not sick.

After I walked through the reception doors, I immediately plummeted into a chair.  Not even making it to the ladies room, I had a major tummy explosion right into the lobby planter.  I would normally die of embarrassment under such circumstances, but at this point I lost all sense of pride & common sense.  I was going to die.  Die in a planter of the lobby of the president’s office, on Valentines Day, and not even have sex!  God is not nice.  And, isn’t she a woman?  She gets this stuff!

I have no recollection as to how I got there, but I was soon awake in the emergency room.  My Babycakes was there with me and they were prepping me for surgery.  Apparently my appendix was about to burst.  I was resentful that my boss  didn’t believe me.  All I had was the sudden urge to call her up and say, “See?  I told you that I was not faking it!”  But, then came the drugs… those lovely, lovely drugs.  I felt elated, sexy, and in love with everything.

Later, Stud-muffin sat beside me in my private room while we awaited the surgeon.  When he arrived, I was shocked at how unbelievably HOT my surgeon was.  And, he smelled soooo good.   After he introduced himself, I asked him if he was “bummed” because he had to work on Valentine’s night. 

“I wasn’t at the hospital. I was on-call,” he told me.

“So… were you out on a date?” I asked.

He answered, “Yes, I was at sushi with my date.”

“Wow, what a bummer, dude!  You weren’t drinking sake were you?  Because if you were drinking sake bombs with your girlfriend, you can’t cut me open.  Well, you are so cute that you could  cut me open if you wanted to.  Which sushi bar were you at?  Are you sure you didn’t drink anything?  Your girlfriend is lucky.  I’m sorry that I ruined your romantic night.”  (yes, I did say this all in front of Loverboy)

Hot surgeon answered all my questions and both men in the room were laughing at me.  The last thing I remember before going out was telling Hot-Doc about how sexy he was and how sorry I was that girlfriend had to go home early. 

Since I’m as old as a brontosaurus, in the “olden-days” they didn’t have laparoscopic surgery.  I am now graced with a 4″ scar above the bikini line.  My Valentine’s Extravaganza was ruined and I couldn’t even get my rain check for 4 to 6 weeks.   Damned appendix!

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