From Her Perspective

Lately you may have noticed that I have been quite the globetrotter.  I have been to sunny California, the rough country of New Hampshire, and even Rhode Island!  Most recently, I traveled to beautiful Aruba.  I had never been there before (haven’t actually gone on a real vacation since Spring Break senior year), so I really didn’t know what to expect.  Would they like me?  Would blue Stool boxes line the streets?  And most importantly, would there be cheese fries?

Since I am always, always terrified of things that are new to me, I had lots of reservations.  My fears were instantly realized when I bought a coffee at the airport that I promptly spilled all over my white shorts.  Really, all of it. Luckily, one of the magazine stores sold Tide sticks, so I ended up in my underwear in the handicapped bathroom, scrubbing out the stains.  Try to control your lust, please.  And I smelled like a Starbucks for the duration of the trip. 

So I was feeling low, assuming the plane would crash, but then something happened that turned my frown 100% upside down.  I got the window seat.  Sweet.  The flight was smooth, and traveling companion and I were minding our own business and eavesdropping on the people behind us.  A girl about our age and a man in his mid-fifties with a woolly beard, short shorts and black boots, were discussing their lives, his very important job that allowed him to travel the world, when the girl says, out of nowhere, “Your wife must get very lonely and jealous when you go away on trips.”  And the man replies, “Well, actually, my wife and are both satisfied no matter where we are, together or not.”  It was as if God had chosen these people to sit down within my earshot just for me.  I felt really special.  So of course it turns out that she is a swinger, too, and none of her boyfriends can handle her sexual prowess.  His parents were swingers, so he grew up with it.  Before you know it, the naked pictures start getting passed back and forth, they are making plans to attend Fantasy Fest in Miami next year, and as the tears rolled down my cheeks from suppressed laughter, they decided to spend the night together and engage in some anonymous sex.  Very nice.  It was then I knew that our trip would be unforgettable.

So we get off the plane, grab luggage and everything, and head to the hotel.  Upon our arrival at the hotel, I thought our trip had coincided with some sort of high school choir thing.  Turns out, all of these kids were married and on their honeymoons.  I couldn’t believe it.  If I married the guy I was dating when I was 22, I’d be miserable.  So would he, probably.  Now, I am sure these kids are really happy and everything will work out fine, we just do things differently here, but I was so surprised.  Another interesting thing to note: apparently, when you get married at 22, it is standard procedure to have insanely long fake nails.  You also have to wear hoodies that have “Bride” or “Mrs. Klotz” or something like that embroidered on the back.  Bikinis with “Mrs. Whatever” sewn into the butt are also very popular.  Neat.

The next morning it was time to hit the beach and, of course, the open bar.  I was very excited to sit in the sand and enjoy a strawberry daiquiri or twelve, and so we lugged some lounge chairs up to the surf and prepared to annihilate our livers.  The daiquiris were awesome – they blended fruit and rum and ice together instead of those gross mixers you buy in the freezer section, which I personally can’t stand.  This way, you can get your daily fruit intake in addition to a good buzz.  Everybody wins.  As we sat and drank, it became clear that our fellow vacationers were much more comfortable with their bodies than we were. All of the men wore Speedos, and the women whipped their tops off faster than you can say “Jerry Thornton”.  Unfortunately, those most contented with themselves were the least aesthetically pleasing of the bunch.  But after a dozen fruity drinks, nobody looks that bad.  Mostly because you can’t really see at that point.

As night fell, everyone hauled off the beach and into the bar.  That was where the real fun began.  We went to dinner at one of those places where they cook your food at the table, which was cool.  The way the restaurant was set up, however, you did not get to sit by yourself.  Please let this be known: I am really, really shy.  Painfully shy.  Being forced to sit with people I don’t know scares the hell out of me.  So when the host led us to a table that already had people sitting at it, I froze.  My traveling companion, who is much friendlier than I, was fine and immediately began chatting away with Darrell and Patty, and I began downing gin and tonics.  I’m not going to lie; I honestly thought Darrell and Patty were going to sell us into a sex ring.  I don’t know why I thought this, but I was convinced.  When they asked us to go for drinks after dinner, I was sure that instead of a nice bar, we would end up in the back of one of those rape vans.  However, my fears were for naught, as Darrell and Patty were actually hilarious fifty-somethings who insisted we class things up by drinking Courvoisier until two in the morning, and when we finally did part, they had two Sex on the Beach drinks sent over to us so we had something to walk back to the hotel room with. You know, because we didn’t drink enough already…

Wait!  There’s more of the story to come!  Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion of “You Can Take the Bitch out of Mass”!