Tuesday, July 8, 2008

health, life, and fire

I have a terrible pretzel addiction. Why, oh why, do I go to Kroger and buy the enormous bag of pretzels?? I will not stop eating them until they are gone.


So we returned Sunday from our lovely, lovely honeymoon in Key West. I had been there once before, on a cruise ship stopover when I was a pissy 14-year-old. B lived there for 5 months in 2005, working as a bartender and living on a busted ass trimaran with a few other guys. I have teased him many times over what a panty dropper "I live on a boat, wanna check it out?" must have been.

My memories of Key West were faint at best; it is a truly gorgeous place. All the lush tropical vegetation and stunning old houses left me speechless. If you don't know me, you should be informed that big old houses are my bread and butter; I think that's one thing I especially love about Memphis, because old Southern homes, in particular, absolutely dazzle me and break my heart. It hurts inside and I don't know why; I don't have any grand fantasies about living in a mansion. I do know, however, that my deep appreciation for old homes is a genetic trait passed directly from my mother.
We ate and drank like pigs down there. We are cheap as fuck in our normal lives, and "allow" ourselves to eat out once, maybe twice a week, but on this honeymoon we went batshit crazy, eating out three times a day sometimes. Highlight: fine dining on the porch of a huge pink house that butted up on the edge of the Atlantic; lowlight: shitty Indian buffet that featured a side dish that was mostly canned green beans. We've been so spoiled by India Palace that we couldn't imagine a bad Indian buffet, apparently. Luckily we ate much more good food than bad: guava ice cream, a blackened grouper reuben, key lime pie, fish tacos, cuban sandwiches & coffee, fried plaintains... yummers. Also I discovered Root Beer Barrel shooters, signature shooter at the Green Parrot bar; small glass of beer with a shot of root beer schnapps set down in it. Fucking delicious.

I think the reason women get so fat when they get married is that they are on such a superdiet before the wedding, trying to be as thin as possible, then they go on that honeymoon and feel like it doesn't matter anymore, and thus the spread begins. Anniversary one comes around and they've gone up two dress sizes. I've seen so many fat wives (not to mention fat husbands, God knows they're around too) that I am determined not to become one, and after much big talk about restarting a running program in MARCH for God's sakes, redo Couch to 5k. Yes, it is 100 degrees outside and I'm a whiny bitch about the heat, but I feel so lazy not exercising at all. I don't want to die as an overweight miserable diabetic at 60 just because it's not always fun to move your body.

We have returned with a huge collection of pictures that you can find on the flickr. B has organized them painstakingly. Subfolders are his primary disease; this can be verified by clicking on the "Honeymoon" collection.

I have said many times in the weeks following the wedding that I don't feel any different, which is true in a lot of ways; however, sometimes I am struck by the gravity of marriage, and I think about how the roles we play in each other's lives is so much more important now that it's definitely for keeps. Before B, I always kind of thought the idea of soulmates and true love was bullshit, but I do know that there is some completely undeniable force that holds me to him and vice versa. Something I never felt in my prior relationship, I don't think. I was overcome by many beautiful feelings on this trip, that travelling is something that we will do with one another for the rest of our lives, and that all the important things we ever do, we will do together. It is certainly not always easy and fun but I am starting to consider the beauty of marriage is a shared commitment to make the hard things as easy as possible for the other person.



2 comments:

BetteDavisLies said...

I think that's one thing I especially love about Memphis, because old Southern homes, in particular, absolutely dazzle me and break my heart. It hurts inside and I don't know why...

It's times like these when I'm convinced we are spawns of the same womb. Throw theogeo Lindsey in that mix, and we have a cluster fuck of backwards Southern women.

theogeo said...

Tee hee. Right on, sisters.

The part about old houses making you hurt inside is spot on. Something in my gut, no, in my bowels is stirred when I snoop around old houses or stores or, hell, even my own family's busted-ass farm.

I've often wondered what that's about, but I'm glad to know I'm not alone.

 

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