Wedding Jitters

Thailand, 2012

This time seven years ago, I was sitting on a toilet, sweating in the coolest temperature the island would reach that day, waving lethargically an electric tennis racket used for swatting mosquitos. Zap. Zap. Zap. I cringed each time I heard that buzzing sound because it was confirmation that they were not retreating: I was a sitting, shitting duck, hours away from my wedding.

I dragged my feet across the exotic villa, slothing myself back into the four-poster bed. I stared blankly at the billowing material used to keep us safe from the bloodsuckers. My soon to be husband lying beside me, still sleeping off the night before, his unsympathetic snores going through me like last nights dinner. Slowly he woke the way any happy human should when waking on a beautiful resort on a tropical island on their wedding day. Turning to face me, he smiled. I looked at him and said “I don’t think I can get married today”, the words leaving me on the last wisps of energy I had left.

My husband called reception for a nurse, (words to the wise, if you have a nurse at your hotel, you are staying somewhere too remote), while I splayed out on the open deck, waiting patiently for my saviour. She arrived as soft and gentle as all Thai women; her silks running across her body and her hair tied in a neat bun.

She tapped on my bare stomach, handed my husband a small clear bag of pills, opened a can of Pepsi and instructed, “Only drink once bubbles have disappeared. Take pills three times a day. No milk. No eggs”, (spoiler alert – Husband to-be did not run for the hills thinking, ‘well there goes my erection’.) The nurse then sent another staff member to collect my wedding dress for steaming and pressing. It appeared she was pretty confident that I was getting married this day.

I wasn’t feeling especially beautiful and ready to glide into being a wife, but the guests were arriving…all three of them; my mum, my best friend, and my husband’s best friend. They were shown to our villa and with one look I could tell I wasn’t the only one that thought they might not make it to the ceremony. My “bridal party” seemed to be suffering the same shitty (pun intended) experience. We lay across the pool villa daybed, staring at the water, not daring to enter. Lazy eyes made way to each other and for the first time in Thai history, time refused to slow down. It was time to get this show on the road and attempt some sort of transformation.

We were led to the resort Spa and I sat in the chair and showed the stylist pictures of ideas for my hair and makeup. She took one look at me, “You must stop sweating,” she said. Obviously, I wasn’t doing it on purpose, the air-conditioning was having zero effect on my body which was trying to turn itself inside out and escape through my backside (yes, backside, because I’m a lady). She immediately led me down circular stairs (to what I’d hoped was a hospital), opened a large door to a shower, turned on the cold and advised I sit there until I could lower my body temperature. By this stage, I was feeling wedding jitters in a way that others might describe as a seizure. I stripped bare, leaned against the back wall of the shower and slid down the beautiful emerald walls, slowly easing myself into the misery that was becoming my pre-wedding preparations.

Before I knew it, I was back in the styling chair, my body was managing to control itself: perhaps the drugs and delicious non-alcoholic flat Pepsi (bet you’ve never had one of those on your wedding day) were starting to kick in. Things were starting to lighten up; I was back to cracking jokes and if the three of us tried really hard, we were able to laugh without pooing our pants (wedding bliss was in play). It was time to turn things around. It was time to order cocktails, take teeny tiny bites of teeny tiny canapés, suit up and ship out. It was as it sounds, I had gone into boss mode. There are things you do on your wedding day; you drink cocktails and champagne while you are getting ready, you laugh at all the brides jokes and you tell her how beautiful she looks; sweat, shit, tears and all.

It was time. I stood out on a verandah with the ocean behind me, looking up towards the jungle. The drums began. The singing and shouting, howling and whistling echoed over the treetops (neither my husband or I knew this would be happening). Minutes later, after wondering if I was about to become apart of an Amazonian ritual, my soon to be husband, in all his non-sick glory, was paraded down the mountain, to meet me.

He was grinning ear to ear as he stopped at the steps, waiting for me to descend. I clinched, clenched and smiled; making my way to the high school sweetheart I never kissed (a whole other story).

“Why are you smiling like that?” I asked, confused by his Cheshire smile.

“I’m just happy,” he said (cue doves flying, hearts breaking, women swooning).

Don’t be fooled, diarrhea, (yeah I said it) didn’t disappear, it subsided for sure. My bridal party and I spent the night prioritising. We moved food around our plates, sculled every drop in sight and then conga lined it to the single closest toilet, getting lost each time on our return to the two healthy men eating and drinking on the beach.

Ask anyone that was there…all five of us…BEST DAY EVER! (No sarcasm intended).

Now we are celebrating our seventh wedding anniversary and with all the amazing adventures we have been on together, walking down that sandy aisle with the man of my dreams, poo pants or not, is still in my top ten best moments (at least).

T. x (Buslove)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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