When Adrian and I got married, we were so happy. We had a smallish wedding that was absolutely our own, and to top off the night, we got to stay at the Big Texan for our wedding night.
And it was glorious for a wedding night, I assure you. Let me show you our ACTUAL ROOM.
The photo sadly does not show the saloon doors to the bathroom, and the odd cedar bits stapled to the cinder block.
That, surely might have ruined the day of some brides, but not me. I was resilient. I rolled with it. I was chill.
Since Adrian runs his own business, we couldn’t take a lot of time off when we got married, so we took a mini-moon to Santa Fe.
Santa Fe, if you’ve never been, is the weirdest fucking place I have ever been. It’s an odd conglomeration of Native American art (most of which is made by whitey), 60 year-old hippies, and a shitload of weed and red desert.
It was short–just a weekend, and in a weird place, and surely, that would have angered some brides. But not me. I knew the constraints of Adrian’s job, I knew what I was up against.
And anyway, my in-laws were fucking awesome and put us up in their Hawaiian timeshare for a week-and-a-half 6 months after our wedding.
Maui, motherfuckers. Nothing–NOTHING–could have dampened my excitement for this vacation. In the span of 6 months, we got married, moved across the state, and Adrian started a new job, with me working with him on our 60-hour weeks.
Nothing could get me down.
The day before we flew to Maui was terrible. If it could have gone wrong that day, it did. We got yelled at, it poured rain all day, our heater gave out, goblins attacked our home, Adrian ended up with a raging migraine and a piss poor mood by the time we got home, and we still hadn’t totally finished packing.
I finished packing while Adrian relaxed, because HAWAII. Even that couldn’t put me in a bad mood.
The next day, we got to the airport a bit early, and decided to have a quick snack at TGI Friday’s. We thought, “Hey, let’s relax, we’re on vacation! Let’s order drinks.”
That was the one of the worst decisions we made for our marriage.
The margaritas were just green tequila, really. It would have been more efficient to bring us the bottle of Patron with a crazy straw. Adrian finished his…and then mine…and may have had a mojito. On our walk to the gate, it was like leading a toddler around the way he was off in his own blissfully alcohol-filled world.
Adrian: “NOA. NOAAAAA. LOOK AT ALL THE PEOPLE. THOSE PEOPLE ARE JAPANESE AND GOING TO TOKYO.”
Me: “Seriously, Adrian, you need to stop shouting.”
Adrian: “THEY’RE ASIAN.”
He was a delight.
Adrian spread-eagled in a chair, one foot up on the bag, one on my thigh. People walked by, pointing and staring, wondering why I was taking a mentally handicapped man to Maui.
This is okay, I told myself. He’s relaxed, and after yesterday, it’s a good thing.
On the way to the gate, Adrian looked like a newborn giraffe attempting an Olympic-level beam routine. It was a shitshow. He had to go 30 feet, and the entire way looked like he had a terrible palsy and I had deprived him his walker for my own pleasure.
I had hopes that he might just pass for disabled to the gate agents; and then he lost his ticket in his own hands and stumbled right into the gate agent. The agent ripped the ticket out of his hands and glared at me, while Adrian wandered away into the jet way.
Agent: “How much has that man had to drink?”
Me: “I swear it wasn’t that much.”
Agent: “He’s almost in a blackout.”
Me: “He’ll be fine, I promise. He’ll get on the plane and go to sleep.”
Adrian had just rammed his shoulder into one of the plastic windows, creating a God-awful boom that echoed for the ages.
Agent: “If he causes any problems, we’re pulling you both out.”
This was going to be like trying to contain a methed-out crocodile, getting Adrian to sit down and shut up. The vacation was going to go right out the window, I was going to lose my fucking mind, and a shitty family restaurant was to blame. If we got kicked off this plane, I might actually evolve into the Hulk and rip DFW airport apart, starting with Goddamn TGI Friday’s.
As I started to walk down the jet way, I realized that Adrian was nowhere to be found. I panicked; if he had chosen to mosey back into the airport, there was no way they were letting us back on the plane. If he had chosen to go into the plane, there was no telling the ridiculous shit he had already done.
I was sweating, shaking, knowing for sure we were not going to go on this vacation–it was all for naught.
I rounded the corner, almost bitch-slapping the steward who wished me Aloha–to find Adrian, in his seat, who asked right before he began open-mouthed snoring, “Where did you go baby? It’s vacation time!”
TGI Friday’s is the source of all evil in marriages.
Have a crazy honeymoon story? Drunk story? Drunk honeymoon story? Do share.