Last night my husband begged me, I mean begged me, to go to the Haunted Trail. I reeeaaaalllly didn't want to go. I mean, no thanks, I am too old, too chicken, wearing the wrong shoes, etc., etc. And also, my husband has a bit of a reputation in HH.
See I used to love going to haunted houses (HH), I went every week as a teenager with a crowd to one on the boulevard. I loved being scared to death when I was young enough to run. A bunch a girls, a few guys and I made a silly, scared crowd moving through the seven levels of horror. We thought it was hilarious and exhilarating.
Then my hubby and I started dating. We thought it would be fun to go to a HH together. So in we went, ooooh there's the blood and guts. Aaaah, there's the guy in the coffin. And then BAM! The chainsaw guy comes out and the hand I was just holding on to was gone. No, I don't mean cut off, I mean it TOOK off. I was then by myself in a haunted house with ghouls and strangers. I made it out and see him standing at the exit. I was not pleased.
But surely that was a fluke, right? Just a one time thing.
Nope. Every haunted house/haunted trail we have been too he bolts. I mean, high stepping, arms pumping, jet streams leaving a trail behind him. I have had to rely on the kindness of other's boyfriends to get me to the end. And there he stands, looking concerned and then asking why I didn't run. What?! Are you kidding me? There is no way to keep up with hi gold medal speed.
Then last night, after I had thought I was through my years of HH horrors, he springs it on me. And begrudingly I go.
In line, I was being quite miserable with knees shaking and a surly attitude. He was geting upset that I was not being "fun". And I had to admit that I was scared. He promised, promised, priomised that he wouldn't leave me.
So away we go. Onto the trail, onto a hayride to take us deep into the swamp. We are with a mixed group: a mom who is slightly inebriated, hugging strangers and forcing her three under 10 kids to go with her,; another couple and a group of teenagers. I have a death grip on my husbands' hand. I am grabbing all parts of him not only in fear for my life but in fear of him bolting.
We travel through dark rooms, are chased by chainsaws, through Clownville, past zombies knawing on mbloody flesh...And I am squeezing him for dear life. At one point he starts his engines and I can feel him pulling away from me to run and I throw myself onto his back and hold onto him for the ride.
Then during another chainsaw part I am pushed out of the way and some girls grab onto him squealing. I was incensed. Wait a secong girly, this is my man! Besides you're grabbing onto the wrong guy. See he will not keep you safe... It took me 19 years, apparently, to train him to stay by my side and I am not giving him up easily!
(BTW- thanks for not leaving me, sweetie)