The other former patient that I'd dated came to the ER after being involved in an automobile accident. Annette was not nearly as beautiful as Lori, but she was cuter—if that makes any sense—and she exuded sex appeal. Not in a stuck-up sort of way, but in a friendly, oh-so-huggable, chemical attraction that made my hormones rage. It didn't hurt that she came wrapped in a body that seemed to be the personification of lust.

We did not waste much time. On our first date, we raced go-carts, and then went to a movie theater. I didn't see much of the movie, because she was sitting on my lap and—better yet—facing me. If her passionate kissing was at all indicative of her passion for other things, I was in for a real treat. I was in for something, but it wasn't a treat.

Next stop: dinner at a restaurant. I doubt that she would have batted an eye if I'd suggested going to a motel instead, but I'm a bit more old-fashioned (and circumspect) in such matters than you might imagine. To tell you the truth, it did not even cross my mind at the time. Remind me to have my testosterone level checked, will you?

Back to the restaurant. Halfway through dinner, and totally out of the blue, she brought up the subject of marriage. Trying to paraphrase her eloquence, or lack thereof, simply would not do it justice. So, let's turn the dial on the time machine, and hear it verbatim. As Walter Cronkite used to say, “. . . and you are there.”

Annette: You know, I'll marry you, Kevin.

Me (surprised by such a premature revelation): Uh, you want to marry me?

Annette: Yes, and I don't care what you look like, either.

What she lacked in tact, she made up in honesty. Translating her last comment, it became, “Yes, Kevin, I'll marry you. You're ugly, but you have more than enough money for me to overlook that. I'm a gold digger in too big of a hurry to bother with any pretense of being adroit. So, bub, it's your money for my bod. Fair trade?”

No, Annette, it's not.

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