Oh, wait! I DO have a Valentine's Day Story!

Those of you who know me know that, while I've been known to write a romance novel or two, (Four) I'm really not that into Valentine's Day.

I can't tell you where it started. I mean, in spite of my less than awesome high school career, I do not recall having any serious heartbreak on or around this Day of Love. I just remember thinking "Who needs it?"

College years, again, for the most part I had a date for V-Day, so you know, I haven't a clue why I've been a warrior against celebrations.

And then I remembered, this morning, a story from my first year of marriage, and I realized I had a fun story.

Here we go:

It was the first Valentine's Day after got married, way back in 1991.  It was a snowy day, but I wasn't worried about getting to my job as a data entry clerk for a medical equipment company.  After all, I was driving the BRAND NEW 1990 HONDA ACCORD Hubby and I bought right before we got married.  I would be super safe on the roads.

I should mention, the Accord was the ONLY car we owned. Hubby worked at the school across the parking lot from our house and our thinking was, hey, he could walk to school and I could drive and we'd NEVER NEED a second car.

We were idiots.

Now, I could have taken the interstate to my job. We lived a minute from the exit and my job was a minute from the exit. I would have arrived safe and sound and there would be no story.

Which is probably why I instead decided to drive the back roads.

I mean, what my actual thinking that morning was involved this thought, "This is Valentine's Day and I know Hubby and I have NEVER in our years together, celebrated it, and I know I've been militant in my hatred of the day, but I should get him a card. And I can stop at the grocery store on the way to work if I take the county roads instead of the interstate.

Which I did.

I'm an idiot.

So there was I was, cruising along on a snowy morning, the roads slippery and fun with snow and a little thing we here in the Northern lands call "black ice."  Which I didn't see.  Because you don't see black ice.

The next thing I remember was spinning...a lot.  I spun and spun and spun and wondered just when I would hit something to stop the spinning.

Then I did and I heard a tremendous crash, like the back window of the car had shattered.  I opened my eyes and I realized I was in a ditch, facing the wrong way on the road. I'd hit two trees, one full grown and one small one and thanks to these trees being on the drivers' side I was not able to open the door.  I was also not able to get out of the ditch.

Now this is there it gets good. See, in 1991, cell phones weren't a thing people had.  So here I'm sitting on a pretty deserted county road and I don't have a way to call for help.  I manged to crawl out of the passengers' side (and into about three feet of new snow, which filled my shoes) and get up out of the ditch. I did NOT look at the car because I knew I'd killed it.

The first house I got to didn't answer their door.  The second house did and the lady very nicely let me use the phone to call my husbands' school and say, "I killed the car."

Not knowing EXACTLY where I was, I gave him my coordinates as best I could and then staggered back to the car.  

Now on his end, Hubby had to borrow a car from one of the other teachers, because, again WE ONLY HAD THE ONE CAR.  So it took him a bit of time (let's just say the teachers at that school were less than charitable...but that's another story) to get to me.  

"I killed it." I said to him. "I shattered the back window."

He got out of the borrowed car and looked at our.  "No, you didn't. It's fine.  Look."

Friends to this day I have no idea what made that shattering noise, but every window in that vehicle was intact.

Hubby drove the car up and out of the ditch. The door was dented, but I could get in and out.  He suggested I go home, but I felt FINE and didn't want to miss a day of work for something so silly.

Again, I'm an idiot.

I drove to work, a little late now. I stopped in and explained to my boss why I was late. Now Dave was a very nice man, probably one of the kindest bosses I ever had.  And he, too, suggested I go home.  I said, no I was FINE. I mean, it's not like I was tarring roofs, I was a data entry clerk.

So I got to my desk, turned on my spiffy 1991 computer, and while I was waiting for it to heat up  (because that's what you did in 1991) I started crying.  Right there at my desk.  I sobbed for a few minutes and realized this was not going to stop any time real soon. So I turned off my computer, and went back to my boss and sobbed that I needed to go home and, hey, could he drive me?

Being a great guy, Dave did, and he had another guy from the Quality Control department follow us so he could get a ride back to work.  They dropped me and my dented car at home and then went back to work.

Now, that's enough of a story. I mean, no cell phones, so I didn't tell Hubby I was home until he saw the car in the drive way during recess and figured it out.  But there's more to it.

See, my boss was a nice guy, but my car did NOT look all the banged up.  And I don't blame him for his next move at all.  He and the other guy from QC drove back to the office by way of my accident route.  I don't think and hour had passed, so the skid marks and the spot in the ditch where I landed were still there.  They were impressed that I hit two trees and didn't destroy the car. They were MORE impressed, however, the I completely missed hitting the transformer box that stood about six feet away from my spot in the ditch.

Dave told me the next day, when I pulled it together enough to go to work, "If we are ever under a scud missile attack, I want to stand next to you."  (This was during the first Gulf War.)

And THAT, my friends, is my Valentine's Day story.

Oh, and NO, Hubby never DID get that card.