Bow Before Thy Greatness: THE Guest Post

The nation is still abuzz with chatter about the Royal wedding. Her dress, her hair, the kiss on the balcony. We just can’t seem to get enough of Leann Rimes and Eddie Cibrian. What? Oh, not royally revolting couples? Now that Prince William and Princess Kate have exchanged vows, we have redirected our scrutiny and awe of their nuptials to their honeymoon. Posh African islands no one has heard of, bungalows the size of our cul-de-sacs, and staff delivering upon every whim. Doesn’t it remind you of your honeymoon?

No. Me neither. Though I might have exiled myself to Africa at certain points.

Other Royal couples haven’t enjoyed such luxury either.  Her Highness of the Internet, The Empress Alexandra from Good Day Regular People , has a different tale to tell, as well. Bow down, loyal countrymen, before Her Grace as she regales you with a tale from her honeymoon. I am still rejoicing in my good fortune to have her come down from the castle to share her story here, at my lowly thatched roof hut. I nearly ordered my own execution – by quartering – after I dared to ask her to write a post. To my shock, she agreed. I am honored to have her words here to share with us plebeians. She is a true Queen of the people, inspiring the huddled masses of bloggers to write better, write more. If you’re not reading her work already, you will now. And you will want to erect Statues in her name and give her large swaths of land. You know, from your basement or something. When you’re done giggling and nodding your way through this piece, load up the carriages and turn the horses toward her palace. Your fealty will never falter.


For most of us, a honeymoon means revelry in a job well done. You’ve pulled off  the big production. High five to all the months of preparation, planning, attention to detail, and surviving the relatives.

“We did it!,” you say to each other, full of smiles, “all we stressed over and bit our nails to the quick about, is now behind us.”

Bring on the sun, the sand, and the pre-baby body.

We are going to Par-Tay!

You are with someone you like a whole lot. You married that one person ON PURPOSE and because you LIKED them the way they are. Now, not only are you euphorically I-do’d to each other, but you are carefree, with time off of work, and days offered up before you–to fill with just each other.

But, I am here today–on I’m Gonna Kill Him–to tell you a story that may save a newlywed out there.

I almost killed my husband on Day 5 of Wedded Honeymoon Blissdom  in the sun and the surf, of Cozumel, Mexico.

I decided to marry my husband for many reasons. The biggest ones being his stability and level headedness. He was/is very predictable in his moods, and emotionally even keeled. Just what an alarmist like me needs. He is the voice of reason after my WebMD search results of moles that look like India.

I count on him pulling me in off the ledge.

There could be a cobra viper anaconda strangler 5 feet from my face, ready to strike at 51 mph, on the most vulnerable part of my body, and he’d soothingly promise me, “It’ll be alright, it’ll be alright.”

With him around, I can scream “the sky is falling!,” in regard to the sump pump going out–he talks me down.

The man would’ve come in handy at Woodstock.

The story begins with he, of the permanent delta brain waves, and I , on a resplendent honeymoon in a gorgeous, open air hotel in Cozumel. Our room is on the water, and the warm breeze flows in, billowing out the sheer curtains.  There is always a mouth watering buffet available in the restaurant below, and we eat when we want. Our first two days here are spent relaxing, being spoiled, and never wanting for a thing.

On our third day in Cozumel, we decide to sign up for one of the hotel’s sightseeing bus trips. On this specific day,  they are offering a full day’s guided tour of ancient temples and ruins. We are to leave very early, but we’ll be back in time to catch the ground floor dinner buffet.  We don’t think to pack food…we’ve forgotten what hunger is like, with whatever we need to have, always being there for the taking at the hotel.

At 7 o’clock a.m. Wednesday morning, we board the bus, taking nothing but our cameras and our enthusiasm.  Our poor, misguided, inexperienced enthusiasm.

It is a day long tour of walking, hot sun, walking, and more hot sun. There is ancient ruin stair climbing involved, there is boarding and unboarding of the bus, there is a long day without food packed involved.

Do you know the signs and stages of  low bood sugar?  I can tell you. Firsthand. As I watched my husband fly through them at warp speed:  Stage 1: irritability. High irritability Stage 2:  accompanying stupor Stage 3: full sentences disappear Stage 4: every man for himself.

I am no stranger to low blood sugar–I have trained myself to overcome its effects and to push on through. I didn’t fit into my beaded lace princess seam wedding dress like a glove with just luck. No, I know how to deal with the physical symptoms caused by long periods of no food.

But, my new husband, my poor new husband: he had no idea what  to do with the lightheadedness, the shakiness, the spots swimming before his eyes, the beads of sweat on his upper lip. He shifted into the most basic primal state: survival.

Never in my life had I imagined that I’d be able to write my own, real life account of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  But on that day, I could. My level headed Dr. Jekyll had become the raging, combative low blood sugar induced Mr. Hyde, his dark side running wild–grumbling at me to hurry up and decide on a seat on the bus already.  Snarling at the poor, unsuspecting retired couple to quit holding up the bus by always getting lost. The fear of what my future held had me break down into tears. And Mr. Cool wasn’t there to bring me in off the ledge.

I had never seen anyone more Hydey.

This was not the person I had said yes to eternal life with–is there a more panic stricken thought for a newlywed?  The bus ride home was made up of me thinking I had made a huge mistake–HUGE–and of him, pupils dilated, sweat soaked forehead, animalistically caring about only one thing: someone who would throw him a piece of meat like a lion at a zoo.

I was ready for him to take over the bus, commandeering it straight into the jungle, where he’d tear off his shirt, run wild, and then return like a crazed native with an ocelot hanging out of his blood soaked mouth.

Yes, I was freaking out, and I needed his voice of reason. I knew he was this close to sacrificing me atop the ancient ruins we had just toured in exchange for someone’s saltine cracker. My only way to survive this? I’d have to kill him.

We endure the bus ride back to the hotel. He heads,wild eyed, straight for the buffet. His unibrow receding and his speech slowly returning to full sentences as we eat.  We are left with a funny low blood sugar story.

But, I am not left the same.

The first thing I always do now, before we board a plane, is buy him two KingSize KitKats at the airport shop, and I keep them accessible for the duration of the trip.  He smiles and laughs everytime he sees me returning from the shop, the two bars in hand.

It’s a funny story. NOW, it’s a funny story — but not then.

My advice to all soon to be honeymooners, is to work in the KitKats, the Snickers, the Twix. You can spare yourself the scene of diamond rings flying out billowy balcony curtains, for just $5.00, plus tax.

(Didn’t you just want to gnaw on a turkey leg and throw the skin at a court jester during that? What was your honeymoon like?)