It’s my final night in Mexico. It has been a week of meetings, meetings, and more meetings with vendors to finalize our wedding here.
Trips together with a significant other seem to be a surefire way to strain the relationship. Of course, we are too far along in our commitment now to use this trip as a litmus test for our compatibility, but it is fun to see what happens when you mix a couple spending entirely way too much time together in a foreign environment. Oh, and let’s not forget the pressure of budgeting and figuring out wedding plans.
Oddly enough, we don’t argue a bit about the wedding. Actually, we don’t argue at all. Except for the occasional differing interpretations of Spanish. (“He definitely said to go past 3 lights, turn right at a book store, where we will see a big bird and many children.” “NO, he said go 3 blocks, go past a library, and take a right at Grand Avenue and turn left when we see little churches.” Needless to say, we got lost a couple of times.)
ANYWAY, even without arguing, being around my man so much just allows more opportunities for me to notice the weird things, the eccentricities, the annoying, and the baffling.
Like his sweet tooth. For being such a string bean, I am amazed by his ability…or rather, his inability to decline sweets. I am without a doubt a huge eater. Ask anyone. But I can say no. And there is a point when it’s just too much work to get myself to food, even if it’s right upstairs. I’m too lazy for that. If hunger pangs wake me up, I just tell my stomach to shut up and fall back asleep.
But not my fiance. He will get up in the middle of the night to polish off an entire carton of Ben & Jerry’s coffee/toffee ice cream. He will even go out to a grocery store on the sole mission of purchasing a dessert item. I find it disturbing.
So imagine my surprise when the nightly complimentary mini desserts the hotel leaves goes uneaten by my man one night. “He has willpower!” I exclaim in my own head before I start drooling during my peaceful slumber.
When I wake up the next morning, I pass the bathroom counter to find the dessert plate with a perfect hole through the clear wrap where SOMEONE had stuck his fingers into where there was once a cube of cake. Ah! He admits he woke up in the middle of the night and had a little snack.
Let’s fast forward to a meeting with the general manager of a hotel where we want to do the rehearsal dinner. We are discussing various food options and somehow we get on the topic of jack fruits. The Mexican manager and other employee in the office have never heard of this smelly, yet yummy fruit. My oh-so-eloquent fiance then describes the aroma of the fruit as similar to “a pregnant woman’s vagina”. My eyes widen in disbelief, and I wish just a little that these men did not understand what was said. I am not that fortunate, as I can tell by the fits of roaring laughter coming from them certainly was a sign that they indeed got the meaning. I just shake my head. I mean, what does that even mean? I forget to ask and now need to google if there is any truth to this bizarre statement.**
On our way to Tulum, I ingested way too much salsa picante and something was a-brewing in my tummy. We had decided on checking out a ridiculously luxurious “rustic” resort for fun. By the time we parked the car, I was wincing in pain. I begged my fiance to hurry up. He asked the nice lady at the front desk in a somehow nonchalant, but very urgent manner if we could look around (read: I need to use your facilities STAT!!) as I shifted my weight from foot to foot.
I was sweating.
I tried to move swiftly through the jungle paradise, but stopped short and whimpered. My man was walking ahead but upon seeing my paralyzed position, he ran back toward me. He had no idea how bad it was. He told me he could go run ahead and scout out how far the restaurant with the restroom was. I looked at him with pleading eyes and whispered, “Please don’t leave me.” He offered to carry me, but that would require pressure to my stomach. I knew that would lead to a guaranteed explosion.
After that cramp subsided, I shuffled slowly past actual resort guests who looked at me suspiciously. Then I had to stop again. Oh my God. It was the terrible realization. I was going to shit myself. This was really going to happen. I started to cry and sobbed what I just thought: I AM GOING TO SHIT MYSELF!
Both my fiance and I started looking wildly around for bushes, corners, ANYTHING to use as cover. Damn this minimalist modern jungle!! Everything was so bare!
Was I going to have to go in my underwear?? Just humiliate myself and pop a squat in my dress and hope nobody notices?? What was I going to do?! I even considered one of the lovely private pools attached to all the bungalows. OH MY GOD, was I really REALLY going to poop on the floor of a $700/night resort?
Thankfully, somehow while crazily stomping my feet in place and praying to God, the moment passed (or perhaps I farted). Either way, I booked it to the bathroom before the next episode of severe cramping began. By the grace of God, I made it!
Not a romantic story. But throughout the entire ordeal, my fiance was concerned. And you know what? He never once laughed at me.
I was already cracking up as I was walking out of the bathroom stall. Hell, I would have laughed while crying in the jungle, but I feared the laughing would have triggered the worst.
If it were him doubled over in pain about to take a dump near a golden tiki torch, I would have laughed. I might have even tickled him to guarantee a good show. And that’s why he’s such an awesome partner. And why I’m a horrible girlfriend/fiancee/person.
**Before you wonder why I’m with him, I have to mention that we are both pretty disgusting. When we started dating, his cousin met me and stated, “You have finally met someone as gross as you are.” So I’m not at all surprised by my guy’s talk about bad pregnant vagina. But I reserve that for friends, family, whatnot. You know the saying, “There’s a time and a place”. Alas, my man does not adhere to this and has no filter. But for this, I love him.