Needless to say (because the title says it all), 2015’s supposedly-most-romantic-day didn’t turn out how it should have. I say this with all the optimism and joy that comes from being a hopeless romantic that’s approaching their second anniversary with the person they love. You hope and you pray that this is the year where you have that Meg Ryan moment that you’ll tell your grandchildren about. Yeah, not me.

The Captain and I had previously discussed our plans for V-Day since we’re both fairly-broke college students on a budget. Did we want to buy each other inexpensive gifts? Did we want to go out to dinner? Etc. In the end, I bought two bags of Lindt chocolates for both of us and the ingredients for The Captain’s favorite meal I’ve ever made—chicken parm.

Valentine’s Day morning didn’t start off too badly. In fact, it seemed just like every other morning. No waking up to roses all over the bed or balloons covering the ceiling. I swear that Pinterest has ruined any possible surprise because I know that my expectation will never be met—thanks Internet. So The Captain and I just hung out, I did some homework that was due, we watched some TV together, and then…the mistake.

I took a nap.

When I woke up, knowing that I had to get cooking on my super-romantic meal, I was groggy, but thought I was fine. The Captain was playing “Destiny”, noise-cancelling headphones that I bought him for his birthday locked on his ears. I had to get off of the bed (which is pushed against the wall, the wall side being mine) without getting in his way so I rolled toward the end of the bed, prepared to simply flip off like I’d done a hundred times before. Except, this time didn’t work out quite right.

I felt myself falling. So I gripped onto the duvet cover, eyes pleading with The Captain to notice my peril, and tried to get his attention. Those damn headphones that until then had seemed God-sent blocked me out. So, crossing my fingers and shrugging because “What’s the worst that could happen?” I let go and fell. Right onto the floor in a crumpled heap of pain because I had someone managed to land most of my weight on my left ankle, and also bruise my right knee with the zipper at the foot of my sweat pants. I was in pain. Horrible, terrible pain.

The Captain, to his credit, did hear the loud thump that I made when I impacted with the ground, and asked, “Are you okay?”

I, a stubborn jackass, nodded while gritting my teeth, and hobbled away to the bathroom to look at the damage. It really hurt, but I figured that I’d just bruised it a little and it would be fine. Wrong.

So I went downstairs and started fixing the chicken parm, opening up a bottle of wine to help settle my frayed nerves, until the time came when I realized that my ankle just might be swelling. So I sat on the moderately dirty kitchen floor with an ice pack of my own devising, and tried to think on what I could do. I texted The Captain, and asked him to come downstairs.

He did, assuming that I was asking for help with dinner or something, and found me in a puddle of misery. “Does this look swollen?” I asked, removing the ice.

“Yeah, it does,” he said. “What happened?”

“I fell off of the bed.”

He gave me the look that everyone since has given whenever I’ve explained the cause. Then I tried to stand, failed, and was swiftly kicked out on the couch with my glass of wine, a bottle of Aleve, and my laptop. The Captain finished up the meal, listening as I shouted directions at him from my spot, and delivered to me my plateful of chicken parm, a bowl of salad, and two hunks of garlic bread.

We watched “The Legend of Hercules” with our roommate, all while I was trying to eat and keep my ankle elevated with ice on it. The food was delicious, the pain terrible, and soon we headed upstairs for the night after the boys did dishes. I had to pull myself up each step on at a time, using arm muscles long forgotten, all while my beloved chuckled at how incredibly slow I was going.

Then, the second mistake. I told The Captain that it was fine if he went back to playing “Destiny” even though on the inside I just wanted to cuddle and watch a movie and be cared for because I’m a baby when it comes to getting injured. Instead, he booted up the game and I hunkered down to watch Starkid Production’s newest musical “The Trail to Oregon.” Even though we were doing separate things it was moderately enjoyable, and the play was awesome, but…

The show ended. I was tired. The Captain was still playing. I tried going to sleep facing the wall, but couldn’t, because that meant my left ankle was pushing against the mattress in a horrible way. It’s impossible for me to fall asleep on my back. So I waited and waited, hoping in a passive-aggressive way that The Captain would notice that I was tired and hurting, but to no avail. So, again being a stubborn jackass, I put on a coat and my shoes, slipping one on over my still-swollen foot, and grabbed my car keys. Then I hobbled down the stairs, each step agony, and walked out of the door.

The Captain cornered me outside, where I’d already started crying because walking hurt so damn much, and asked where I was going. “To my mom’s,” I said. Essentially running away, but not on V-Day; it was February 15^th by this point.

He shook his head, and asked why.

So I explained, and he listened, and when it was over I went back inside. He turned off “Destiny” and we talked. He put more ice on my ankle before leaving to go get bandage wraps from Walmart. He came back in record time with three different kinds of bandages, and carefully wrapped one around my injured foot. Then, putting another pillow under my elevation station, he turned off the lights. And we went to sleep.

I did get him to promise me one thing though. That next year, no matter what, it couldn’t be any worse than this year. That next year no one will get injured, no one will try to leave, and that I’ll speak my mind next time I want him to leave his mistress, that temptress, “Destiny” I’ll just say so.

I’ve had way better Valentine’s Days, but I’ve had some not so great ones too. This falls somewhere near the bottom, but it definitely could’ve been way worse. Imagine if the chicken parm had been left in the oven while we rushed to Urgent Care!

But, for everything that did happen, I’m still glad that we were together for it.