Montezuma’s Revenge

On our honeymoon, we ate a lot. We ate virtually anything and everything they served us, which we quickly realized was on the liberal end of ‘ethnic.’ There was French, Moroccan, Japanese, Mexican, and Caribbean food, just to name a few.
What occurred to us as a result of this was what is known as ‘Montezuma’s Revenge.’ After a particularly enjoyable meal at a place called ‘La Fondue,’ Bryan and I both began to feel a rumble. My rumble started in the middle of our meal and I excused myself. It followed us everywhere, and this is something you most certainly cannot deal with the way you do when you have to go potty in the pool. It followed us to bed, to the beach, and to our romantic night in Playa del Carmen, where Bryan had to chance the unfamiliar restrooms not at the resort.
When we left the resort to (finally) return home, we sat and ate a very large meal in the airport from (what we thought) was the all-American Johnny Rockets. Hmm. Our flight leaving Cancun was on time, which seemed a miracle after an escapade such as this. My father once told me the rudest thing you can do is fart on an airplane. Unfortunately, I wasn’t well enough to make those kind of moral decisions.
When we landed in DFW, we went through customs and knew we had a narrow window to make our connection to Kansas City. Of all people, we were pulled aside to be searched by U.S. Homeland Security. This search took 22 minutes and involved scouring our bags and going through absolutely everything. Let me tell you, if you ever have to pick a time to have your luggage raided, post-honeymoon would certainly not be it. As he unzipped my tightly-packed hot pink baggage, an item became projectile. A feathery accessory given to me by girlfriends smacked it’s leather-plated side on the airport ground. I grabbed my knees, turned around, and laughed to tears, leaving Bryan standing there with no explanation. The African American security officer raised his eyebrows at me and then acknowledged that it was my honeymoon, after all. He proceeded to go through the laundry. We missed our flight.
Walking away towards our departing gate, where we would be hanging out for another four hours. I hear a pounding crack. The prized hand-painted plate from Playa was in Bryan’s possession, wrapped in newspaper, and was the object of my affection from the trip. It was now shattered on the floor by accident. I bawl. I sit outside the restroom, where I keep going in and out so often I no longer tell my mom/friend I will call them back, I just keep talking.
We arrive in Kansas at 11:30 pm and I make a pit stop in the bathroom. I happen to be in pain when the lady next to me decides she is sick to her stomach. I am trapped; I cannot go anywhere. Ugh. She must have also been arriving from Mexico?

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