In search of the perfect Margarita
It’s been years since Himself has been stuck for words and Sophie White is keen to find the ‘off’ switch before a weekend away together is ruined with talk
I’m doing a un-me thing and going on a holiday with just my husband. It has disaster written all over it, frankly. To explain why, I must first rewind about six years, to our wedding day. After the registry-office bit, the gang all went back to my father-in-law’s house for some pictures and a toast, before heading on to the party we were having that night. So far, so good. As is the custom, Himself and I were supposed to arrive last to the reception, which meant that everyone left for the party, leaving us alone with each other.
It was an oddly hellish stretch of time, probably no more than 20 minutes long, though in my memory, it seemed like years. And the problem? Well, just hours into the marriage and, apparently, we were already stuck for conversation.
I remember it vividly — I was looking at him and I thought, “Shite, I have nothing to say to this person; what the hell have I done?” Luckily, our friend showed up before I tried to retroactively jilt Himself, and he drove us to the party. The strange awkwardness was short-lived, and we have spent most of our marriage since then shouting over each other and, in recent times, our kids, in order to be heard.
Himself has a particular issue with the shouting — even when he’s merely inches away from me, he’s shouting. The noise levels can be so intense in our relationship that my main concern about going away with him is the 24-7 proximity that we’ll be ‘enjoying’.
“I was looking at him and I thought, ‘Shite, I have nothing to say to this person, what the hell have I done?’”
Remember when you first started seeing your person and you’d sit in restaurants pitying the couples sitting in silence, vowing to never be like them? Little did I know I’d one day envy that quiet. We are never that couple, and now I’m faced with four days alone with him.
It’s the kind of thing married people think they long for, but in actuality we live together, we sleep in the same bed, we each are surrounded by mini versions of the other person. Having kids, after all, is basically like the other person has multiplied and is now swarming all over you.
When we’re home, I can ply him with food — this warming risotto works well — to keep him quiet, but when we’re away, it’s a different story; he’s got nearly unlimited airtime to fill.
Our last trip away alone together mercifully coincided with the release of the West Cork podcast, and, fittingly, we were staying in Inchydoney, so it seemed totally reasonable to use every waking moment of our romantic getaway to immerse ourselves in murder. It kept him quiet and potentially averted another murder. Now all I need is another good podcast to plug him into for the duration of our romantic couples’ getaway.