(Part 1)
Last week was the 27th anniversary of the shortest honeymoon in history.
Mine.
The honeymoon was really over before Bob broke his collarbone on the fourth day of our marriage and the third day of our ski trip to Aspen. After the trip to the ER, it was me behind the wheel maneuvering through 30 miles of potholes to our hotel in Glenwood Springs with Bob grabbing his shoulder, wincing in pain and yelling about my driving. We were staying there because it was much cheaper. But since that trip almost ended the marriage, that decision was questionable.
After deftly steering the rental car past the largest pothole, Bob snapped, “You missed one! Don’t you want to back up and get that one, too?” That’s when the waterworks started.
But the honeymoon was even before that.
In fact, it was over when his mother moved into his – soon to be my – house two months before the wedding to have someone to look after her following her operation for “female troubles.” She took up residence on my new sofa rather than the guest bedroom, declaring it hurt too much to climb six steps. That’s where Hilda lived for the next four months, chain-smoking her way through her recovery and my last nerve, and permanently imprinting the smell of Kent cigarettes into the upholstery. She smoked Kents because of her last name, and, like the Carly Simon song, she was so vain she probably thought they named them after her.
The honeymoon was over when my mom got upset that we were having a champagne toast at the reception and decided, after conferring with her minister, that she and my brother would drive seven hours from North Carolina to the wedding, then leave immediately afterward and before the reception so that she would not have to be a party to the imbibing of four ounces of champagne.
It was over when Bob’s cute but old West Highland Terrier, Duff, got sick the week before the wedding and had to be put down. Bob called early one morning to say that if I wanted to see Duff again to get over to his house quickly, because the dog had cried all night in pain and he was taking him to the vet. By the time I arrived, he had already left with the dog, and Hilda and I sat together and had a good cry. Then after he got out of school that day, I had to break the news to my 6-year-old son, who had already claimed Duff as his dog.
The honeymoon was over when the blizzard of 1983 hit the day before the Feb. 12 wedding, preventing one of the two officiating ministers, one of Bob’s groomsmen and my entire family from attending the wedding (which meant that the whole champagne discussion had been for naught). Since my brother couldn’t make it to walk me down the aisle, I called up my local printing rep the night before the wedding and asked him to pull out his dark suit and give me away. Can’t beat next-day service from your local printer!
(To be continued)
