They say marriage is about balance. Our 25th anniversary in Hawaii took that lesson quite literally – from the serene heights of mountain trails to the fiery depths of Thai spice levels.
It wasn’t until halfway up the trail that I made two profound discoveries: I forgot water, and my bladder had excellent timing. Of all the vacation planning list I made, basic survival needs somehow didn’t make the cut. When I declared my discoveries to my dear husband, he humorously suggested I use nature’s own bathroom facility, but it simply met with my city-girl horror – apparently my dignity is far more important than my bladder’s desperate pleas. Of all the anniversary traditions couples collect over the years, I never imagined “discussing bathroom options on a Hawaiian trail” would make it into our top ten memorable moments.
I approached the second hike with questionable confidence, but somehow my determination won over my legs.
This rainforest hike was utterly beautiful. The trail promised us a waterfall at its end. My husband imagined a majestic waterfall worthy of a tourism brochure and I was more than happy enjoying the massive trees. After a while, my inner monologue shifted from “Look at these beautiful trees” to “Why didn’t I train for this?” My stoic eyes were looking down on the rocks and stones we had to walk on. I could feel a tremble in my legs, but I kept going with determined confidence.
As we reached the end of our trail, the imagination of a majestic waterfall fell flat for my husband as he saw something like a nature’s drinking fountain, but I didn’t care. I was just happy I made the end of it and now I just need to go down the hill and I can finally eat something!
My husband turned to me and asked, “What next?”
“What, what next? It’s time to eat! I am having a headache. I am starving. I am physically exhausted.”
Whoever invented the word “hangry” deserves a Nobel Prize. After years of thinking I had a unique talent for turning hunger into an emotional crisis, discovering this word was like finding my tribe. All those childhood moments of food-related meltdowns suddenly had scientific validation. I wasn’t being difficult – I was being hangry before hangry was cool.
I declared we go to a Thai restaurant. My husband, who typically maintains diplomatic neutrality in the face of Thai food suggestions, found himself in an anniversary-induced compromise.
Google Maps played its favorite game of “You have arrived!’ at every wrong location.
After a few failed attempts of going in circles, we made the executive decision to park our car and then simply walk towards the restaurant. Walking worked!
Having conquered two mountain trails, I felt invincible – a dangerous state of mind when you’re both starving and facing a Thai menu. You know how they say anticipation makes everything better? Well, my long-awaited Thai lunch was about to become memorable in ways my spice-loving ego wasn’t quite ready for.
There are moments when our heart speaks, our brain objects, and our stomach gets voting rights. This was one of those moments. There I was, physically exhausted from hiking, sweating in the Hawaiian sun, and what does my brilliant mind conclude? Yes, this is the perfect time for maximum spice on my basil vegetarian fried rice and papaya salad and piping hot water.
The waiter came and when my turn of the order came, I quickly answered “Papaya salad and vegetarian basil fried rice with maximum spice. Hot water please.”
“You mean, Spicy?” the waiter asked, with what I now recognize was a mix of concern and amusement. Like a warrior declaring battle plans, I confidently replied, “Yes, spicy!'”
The waiter’s glance at my husband wasn’t just a look – it was a silent telegram of “Is she sure about this?” My husband, veteran witness to my spice-related overconfidence, simply shrugged with a smile and was earnest to see how it is going to unfold.
First bite: excitement.
Second bite: realization.
Third bite: regret.
The basil fried rice I’d ordered with maximum spice became irrelevant – my taste buds had already gone on strike after the papaya salad assault.
In a plot twist that surprised absolutely no one except past-me, the hot water I’d so proudly ordered became less ‘soothing comfort’ and more ‘adding fuel to the fire’ – “literally”.
My husband, watching this culinary drama unfold, silently offered his ice from his water – a peace offering in my moment of crisis. I kept putting the ice on my hot water in the hope of making it cold to the point it was just barely warm.
Where was the waiter? The one time I needed someone hovering over my table asking, “How is everything?” and the restaurant had suddenly become a masterclass in efficient privacy. The irony of desperately wanting ice water after proudly ordering hot wasn’t lost on me, but dignity takes a backseat when your tongue feels like it’s auditioning for a fire-walking show.
In a final lesson in humility worthy of our anniversary adventure, there I sat – physically exhausted from hiking, defeated by a salad, and still somehow hungry. The scenic morning views had given way to an afternoon of what I can only describe as ‘spicy meditation.’ We ended our day with another 40-minute walk in the peak sun, because apparently, the universe wasn’t quite done with its lessons in humility. And that’s how our romantic anniversary hike turned into a tale of two temperatures – the cool mountain trails and the fire-breathing papaya salad that followed. At least we got our cardio in, even if most of it was from my tongue doing the hot sauce dance.
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