I’m watching Dateline. Never a good thing. This means that I will spend the weekend convinced that I will be sold into white slavery/murdered while on a run (except I don’t run)/discover that my sister is my mother. Or, in this case, murdered by my new husband on while on a scuba dive on our honeymoon.
So, potential mates. Here’s what’s going to go down on our honeymoon. (We already know what won’t be.) We will be going to Northern Ireland. I don’t care that it’s winter and it’s cold and it’s rainy and you want to do something that involved a wetsuit. We will go out to brunch. A lot. I may take a nap. A lot. (I love naps.) I will drag you to various sites and go on, ad nauseum, about the Troubles. Then we’ll go have dinner.
At no point will I be putting on a swimsuit. At no point will we be doing a sport that I don’t want to do. At no point will we be doing anything remotely dangerous (except when I make you go the Falls Road.)
Once we get home I will most likely be sick of you, and then you can go on your adventure vacation on your own. I’ll be at home. Spending your money on morning lattes at Starbucks.
I hope this will be satisfactory.