Among his varied other writing interests, Richard Parr aspires to creating interesting and inspiring stories about life.
Disclaimer — By no means should anything in this article be taken as a recipe for honeymoon success. Though it may be taken for quite the opposite very successfully.
It was a nice room I sat in—had sat for most of the past four hours—though I had little time to appreciate it, focused as I was on expelling incendiaries from between my nates; whatever I'd eaten must have had semtex as a main ingredient.
Actually, to be honest I knew what it was. For the wedding reception my aunt had contributed plates full of exquisite caramel tarts; probably the most angelic food I've ever eaten ...which is why I ate practically all of them. (Don't look at me like that, it was my big day too, they were heavenly and she was my Auntie)
Of course, in hindsight I wouldn't of touched them if I'd known they were going to cause Krakatoa to erupt from my alimentary canal. But hey, wisdom comes easy after four hours blanket bombing the toilet bowl.
She carried me over the threshold
I should be thankful, I suppose. War wasn't officially declared on my innards until just before reaching the hotel. Succumbing to the pain, I'd stopped the car and asked my newly wed wife to drive the last few kilometres; keeping to myself the fact that the last depression of the brake had filled more than just the brake-line.
Pulling into the hotel car park, my bride left the motor ticking over and ran (I think she'd smelt the brake fluid) to book us in. Shortly after, she carried me over the threshold directly to the only room capable of handling my condition. I remember glancing regrettably at the bed on passing. But who can harbour regrets in the fountain of relief that comes knowing that the fountain of release isn't going to be inside your trouser leg.
It was a long and drawn out war of attrition that night. There was screaming, cursing and long prayers for deliverance. During lulls in the cannonade, I would torment myself by crawling to the bathroom door to glance at my beautiful young wife waiting there for me, before rushing back to serenade her again from the wrong end of my anatomy.
Romance was in the air that night ...somewhere I'm sure. Though it had given way to a cloying miasma in my vicinity.
But, in the words of that bubbliest of all philosophers, Friedrich Nietzsche, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger."
Then again, maybe he was just referring to the smell.
That which does not kill us makes us stronger
— Friedrich Nietzsche
I think it was somewhere around two in the morning they surrendered, having exhausted their arsenal (and worn out mine). Bone tired, I collapsed beside my sleeping wife. With what remained of my strength, I stole the duvet from her and slid into a well earned unconsciousness.
Surprisingly refreshed with only a few hours sleep, we departed early the next morning—so as to avoid room fumigation costs—and from there drove the main leg of the journey to our final destination.
Day Two Through Five
Had I known our honeymoon coincided with the millennial re-enactment of Noah's flood, I'd have rescheduled, but whaddyado.
We'd planned a skiing honeymoon and had driven to the only mountain range offering such in the north island of New Zealand.
The snowy peaks of Mount Ruapehu were supposedly visible from the hotel. Which we took on faith. It was currently raining so hard your arm disappeared if you stuck it out the window.
But putting the weather behind us, we ignored the hammering deluge and the noises of the animals queuing in pairs, and got down to serious snuggle time—we had some catch-up owing.
...And that's when the doorbell rang.
Under the delusion that I must have ordered room service, my wife gave me a knowing smile. Under the delusion she'd ordered room service, I got up to eat...
Answering the door, I was met by the smiling faces of ...our friends! ...Oh joy.
Long story short, they stayed the night. (You're looking at me like that again. What was I supposed to do? They'd travelled all this way to see us, they were wet and cold, and wanted to use the spa... ...Ok already! I was a namby-pamby. I should have told them to clear off.)
My wife has since forgiven me for revealing the location of our honeymoon.
Other things to avoid as a husband
Day Six through Seven
Our "friends" left. There was no flood. The animals went home, and we headed to the mountain!
Things were looking up.
Being a non-skier, I was a bit nervous. But my wife, European and an accomplished skier, told me not to worry, she'd have me competent in no time; said she had the perfect method for training new skiers.
I had no reason not to believe her.
So, kitted up, we hitched a chairlift and went up the mountain. We passed the first drop off point and my wife made no move to dismount, so I sat with her. So too the second and third.
"Umm, I said, how far up are we going?" from where I sat the slopes were beginning to look vertical.
"To the top." she said, annoyingly cavalier.
"But..." I began to protest. Too late. We'd arrived at the top and she hopped off. I fell off after her.
It was very cold up that high. The ground felt equal part ice and snow and the slopes angle looked suicidal rather than vertical.
Nervous, I asked, "So now what". I was struggling to stand, let alone move.
"OK, going down the mountain you need to be doing the snow-plough". she replied, demonstrating the classic beginners skiing position. Which I managed to duplicate without falling over.
"Ok", I said, my confidence brimming, "Now what?" I was eager for the next steps of her "method" that would have me skiing like a pro.
"Now–", she said, "–you go down the mountain. See-ya." And she disappeared.
That's right. My newly wed love-of-my-life wife left me—Mr newbie skier—alone at the top of suicide mountain. I stared in stunned disbelief as she gracefully parallel skied into the haunting mist.
I had just been suckered
Recovering, I realised the only way out was down. Of course, I could've taken the chairlift, but I was a man, and real men didn't let their wife's –at least, not in the first week– have the final laugh. Making my way to the edge of the slope (to the quiet amusement of those around me I'm sure), I took a breath and... ...fell ...pretty much ...down the entire mountain.
There were a few stops on the way in which I accidentally regained my feet, but they were short lived.
My ski bibs soaked and every part of me battered and bruised, I descended. But, lo and behold, I mastered the snow-plough—Yes, Iiii mastered the snow plough!
By the time I got to the bottom, as angry as I was with her at the top, by the time I found her at the bottom, I couldn't help but jeer, "Your evil plan failed, I made it alive, and I CAN SNOW-PLOUGH". Then I tripped and fell on my face.
For the rest of that day I skied. Skied and skied and skied. By the end I could even manage a reasonable imitation of my wife's skiing style (when viewed peripherally from a distance).
Finally, day done, we drove home, happy and exhausted.
Back at the hotel, we ate, had a spa, snuggled and went to sleep.
Next morning I was paralysed
Muscles never used before yesterday wreaked their vengeance, awaking me to a symphony of suffering in the pain centre of my brain. I had pain in places I never knew I had places.
My wife nursed me for that day, though she wouldn't stop smiling.
By the next day I could walk something akin to a ninety year old cripple.
We got one more day of skiing in before our Honeymoon ended. Looking back we laugh about the whole fiasco, and I've always promised her that one day we'll do a second honeymoon.
The thought of it leaves me trembling.
We're good, but this couple are the grand master of disaster
© 2014 Richard Parr