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The all-important Husbands In (serious) Situations, HIS manual specifically states that exaggeration in times of trouble is perfectly acceptable - nay, necessary - in certain situations. No husband should be with this tool in his bag of tricks, I mean, his "approaches," when disaster strikes.

Especially when hapless husbands forget holidays such as birthdays, anniversaries or "date nights." And Valentine's Day, like I did.

It wasn't my fault. I'd been sidelined with a bad ear infection for a couple of days and couldn't hear well, so cupid's call was a bit unclear to me, just dimly breaking through the threshold of marital consciousness.

So on Valentine's Day morning when I awoke to a tray of coffee coming through the door, my venerated husband-protection-alarm failed to alert me. I was about to fall into a trap almost impossible to extricate oneself from.

"That smells so good," I said, stretching as my wife, Janet, put the tray in my lap. "What's the special occasion?" That's when my eyes saw them; two red foil-wrapped chocolate "kisses" next to the coffee, along with an unlit heart-shaped candle.

Now my belated husband-protection-radar kicked in, clanging like the claxon on a Coast Guard cutter in a deep-sea catastrophe. I instinctively grabbed the side of the bed to hang on, digging my nails right into the mattress.

It's a curious thing, I noted, when adrenaline shoots through the synopsis. It's like a runaway freight train careening double-fast down Pikes Peak. It's like electricity suddenly surging through the center of your brain, screaming for grounding and finding none. I began to think furiously for the way out.

As Janet put the tray in my lap, she reached for matches to light the candle

"It's Valentine's Day, silly," she said sweetly, lighting a match. I saw my week, month and quite possibly a year, go up in smoke as the smell of sulfur saturated my senses.

I began to moan. This is what hell would smell like, I thought, except it would be worse. The coffee would probably be bitter in hell. My moan was a giveaway, I realized, so in mid-stream I quickly turned it into a sound of surprised satisfaction.

"Wow, you are the greatest to think of this wonderful treat," I said, feigning a lionlike yawn. "I'm such a sap that I didn't think of it first."

She smiled. A good sign.

Score one for the guy, but who's keeping score, right? Well, women are, for one. They do not forget. Nor do they, in general, forgive immediately contrary to what they may say.

How do I know this? Next year at Valentine's when the card comes out of your hand, along with flowers, a gift certificate to the clothing boutique and the reservations to her favorite restaurant to make up for the previous year's faux pas, she will glow with satisfaction, warmth and a smile. With a nod that symbolizes acceptance of your sacrifice, she will say, "You remembered! I was wondering after last year."

That says it all. It takes 365 days, punctuality and presents to make up for "last year." All year long, you will realize, she anticipated the disastrous repeat of Valentine's Day past hoping her thick husband wouldn't let it happen again.

You can only push these women so far, you see, and then they can't take it anymore. That's why exaggerating the existing ear infection to avoid the all too harsh truth of blowing it was necessary. It's really for her, says the HIS Manual, it's not about you. God bless the manual.

The manual advises "when trapped don't be too specific," so I said, "Aw, honey, this is so great. This ear infection has just got me down, or ..." and then trailed off, letting her come to her own conclusions.

"Is it still hard to hear?" she said, leaning toward my ear a bit.

"What?" I said, pulling out the old joke I've employed for 20-plus years. Humor is a spiritual soother, the manual teaches. Get 'em laughing.

She smiled again. I began to see light at the end of the tunnel. I stalled for time by taking a slurp of coffee, putting the tray on the side table and pulling the blankets under my chin. The manual says, "offer an attractive alternative quickly."

"I had it all planned out," I said, carefully avoiding details like what "it" was. "It's just this darned ear thing. Can we have Valentine's Day on Saturday when I can give you the attention you deserve, rather than putting up with a shell of a burned-out husband who can't hear what you have to say? We'll go out, wherever you want to go."

"Sure, sweetie," said Janet smiling, giving the blankets a pat. "You're so thoughtful." She left satisfied. There is a God.

In gratitude, I took another look at my HIS manual, and saw this footnote;

"Mistakes are sometimes covered and not revealed. This is called 'mercy.' But soon a mistake will be made that cannot be covered. Beware; better to take care of whatever causes mistakes now before living with it forever."