I have always welcomed the beginning of April: spring, spring break, and a calendared excuse to gift-wrap my co-workers' cubicles. April Fools' Day!

As cheesy as it is, one has to be soulless (and probably also has to hate every viral YouTube video ever) to not glean some sort of enjoyment from a well-planned practical joke -- even if it's happening to you. I'm a good sport, normally, but one particular April Fool's joke had me seeing red last year.

I had been dating Michael for a few months and we were in the very crucial, very exciting, very exclusive stage leading up to the "boyfriend/girlfriend" label conversation. Things were going great. I was totally invested, he was totally attentive, and I figured we were cruising on the pothole-free highway to Coupleville.

One fine April first afternoon, I received a text message from Michael smack in the middle of my work day: "Call me. We really need to talk."

At first, I was able to remain calm. Coupledom! Highway! Maybe he simply needed me to answer a time-sensitive question. Maybe he needed to clarify our plans for later that night. Maybe he even had to cancel said plans due to freak illness or injury. None of these scenarios would have been cause for an amber alert.

It only took an additional few seconds, however, for me to read into his message and begin catastrophizing: He was seeing someone else. He was seeing someone else and had to tell me he'd contracted an STD. He was seeing someone else and had an STD and she was pregnant. Or, worst of all: He just didn't want to see me anymore.

I hadn't felt this clammy and nauseated since junior high. I called him on the spot.

He didn't pick up.

In my little ladybrain, my worst fears had just been confirmed. So I did what any other rational, thoughtful, composed woman in my position would do: I called him back repeatedly until he finally answered his phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi. I ... got your text."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Mmm."

"Well?"

His tone was grave, his responses short. I was about to throw my phone across the room. Put me out of my misery, Michael!

"I just really think we need to talk," he said.

"...OK."

"About us."

"... OK?"

Looking back on it, I'm pretty sure he rehearsed the dramatic pause that preceded the following: "I just wanted to tell you that ... [insert sharp intake of breath through his teeth here] I don't think this is working out."

I tried to form questions in response: ("WHAT? WHY? HOW?") but I could only clutch my phone in a vice grip and feel my heart slowly deflate into the pit of my stomach. My vision went a little blurry as I held back confused tears, when the following happened:

"APRIL FOOLS!!!!!"

The voice was coming out of the speaker of my phone, but it sounded a million miles away. I still couldn't form words.

"Hello? Are you there? I said APRIL FOOLS!"

The string of obscenities I managed to sandwich between "Are you" and "kidding me, Michael" would have made my sweet, Catholic grandmother blush seven shades of red, purple and plaid.

I hung up promptly and tried to piece together the emotional roller-coaster Michael had just orchestrated for me in the name of April Fools' Day.

Clearly frightened for his physical and emotional safety (should we ever meet again in person) and the status of the relationship (or lack of one, if I had anything to say about it), Michael began frantically calling me back to smooth things over.

By way of an apology, he tried to assuage my rage by explaining that I wasn't the only target of his tomfoolery that day. He had also played a prank on his mom. Get this: Michael had called his mother and told her that his sister was in the hospital. I can only imagine the enthusiastic "APRIL FOOLS!" that followed up that declaration.

Moral of the story: Stick to Whoopie cushions and leave the emotionally charged subjects OUT this April Fools' Day. Even Michael's own mom didn't talk to him for a week.