We grow up emulating our heroes, identifying with those who rescue others. We play at being cops, soldiers, knights of the realm and our fathers. We love Robin Hood, defender of the helpless, Superman, fighter for truth, justice and the American way and Popeye who actually likes spinach and gets Olive Oyl out of her toughest scrapes. It is only natural to want to be a hero to Her, to save Her from threats real or imagined, to protect Her from enemies foreign or domestic. We want to show Her that we have the fortitude to run into a burning building and carry Her out over our shoulders, to take on an army of barbarians who mean to do Her harm, to stand between Her and the charging rhino. The trouble is, there is rarely a dragon around for Saint George to slay. Au contraire mes amis. Being Her hero every day is easy. When fighting your way through hordes of angry shoppers walk between Her and traffic. A rolled up newspaper is a nice substitute for a dragon slayer’s sword when spiders attack. Filling her car with gas or packing Her lunch will arm Her against the trials of the day. Sacrificing ESPN for the Hallmark channel or braving the in-laws with a song in your heart displays more chivalry than King Arthur’s test of knighthood. After all, to Her, being a hero (little h) is not nearly as important as being Her Hero.