I haven’t had very good luck with honeymoons. Or marriages, come to think of it. Though I would actually call both of my marriage successful despite their ultimate demises. My son was a product of the first, and I would hardly call a 20-year marriage a failure. We succeeded for a long time, but I’m actually writing about honeymoons today. Specifically, the first one because there’s not a lot to tell about the second one as you will discover at the end of my story.
Two marriages equal two honeymoons with two different husbands and both to Hawaii, though they were on different islands so I didn’t have to suffer the fate of remembering being in the same place with Husband #1 when I was with Husband #2.
Husband #1 was only interested in buying weed. We spent a week on the island of Oahu, and he spent six days trying to score weed. Of course I knew before I married the guy that he liked his weed, but I didn’t think his smoking habit would infiltrate our honeymoon.
There was a casual mention of him wanting to buy some “good shit” in Hawaii a few weeks before our wedding, but I didn’t give it too much thought. I envisioned him asking the bellman at our hotel about it when we arrived, and then perhaps the bellman coming to our room that night with enough to last him the week and that would be the end of it.
I also envisioned us sitting on our hotel balcony overlooking the ocean drinking Mai Tais or some other exotic tropical drink and then walking hand in hand along the surf as the sun set, but that never happened.
The bellman did come to our room that first night, but only with one joint. The next morning Husband was on a quest to find more weed. I found myself running along behind him on the streets of Honolulu while he looked into the eyes of locals hoping they could read each other’s minds. “Got weed?” his eyes would say, “Yes,” the stranger’s eyes would say, and then they would duck behind a building or dumpster and exchange money and drugs. As the lookout, I became an accessory to these crimes.
For whatever reason, he could only get a small amount at a time so these were our daily excursions.
I took to wearing a disguise. We did have a few nice dinners in between our hunts for illegal drugs, and the Luau that the hotel put on was a memorable experience. But what I remember most is following Husband and a local dude into a rundown apartment complex where we entered the unit with an upside down “B” on the door, and while Husband was conducting his final transaction with four strange men lurking, I envisioned them taking what was left of our money and slitting our throats.
Obviously that didn’t happen, because nine years later I was on the island of Maui with Husband #2, who didn’t like marijuana due to the paranoia that would envelop him each time he’d tried it.
We had a wonderful time sitting on our hotel balcony overlooking the ocean sipping exotic tropical drinks and taking nightly walks along the surf at sunset. We dined at wonderful restaurants, went on a snorkeling excursion to Molokini, swam in the ocean, read books on the beach, and even tried parasailing. We did all the touristy stuff.
What we didn’t do was have good old-fashioned sex. Instead, we asked the concierge at our hotel where the nearest pharmacy was so I could stock up on Monistat because I was hit with a raging yeast infection on Day #2 of Honeymoon #2.