Old Man's Wrinkly Nuts

"How about this marriage retreat?" said the marriage counsellor. "It's to reconnect with your partner. It's held at a camping ground and run by a church group, but don't let that put you off."

Reluctantly, we agreed. We were three years into our marriage and hit a rough patch after I suffered a relapse of clinical depression. No-one had warned us about the fireworks wearing off and disillusionment setting in.

We were prepared to give it a go.

We checked into the camping ground and were shown our sleeping quarters in a dormitory - single bunk beds sharing with other couples.

"Okay, this wasn't quite what I had in mind," I said. "I'd thought we'd be getting our own room at least."

"Yeah, we don't even sleep in the same bed," agreed my husband.

The other couples were all middle-aged or elderly. No young couples like us.

We were introduced to the program. It was about learning about your partner, but there was to be no speaking to each other. We were given paperwork to read and fill out back at our dorms.

"How are we supposed to get to know our partners if we're not allowed to talk to them, " muttered my husband on the way back to our dorms.

A little bell tinkled to let us know when we needed to turn up for meals or lectures. The lectures were as dry as stale Weetbix.

"I need to get out of here before I go crazy," said my husband, so we snuck out for a walk in the cool night. We felt like naughty boarding school students breaking curfew.

Next morning, after an uncomfortable night lying on lumpy old mattresses, the bell tinkled indicating breakfast time.

"If I hear that bell ring one more time, I'm going to shove it so far up his a*** that it will come out of his mouth," muttered my husband, just loud enough for only me to hear.

We were made to surrender our car keys and watches upon entry, which we thought was strange. It dawned on us why.

At breakfast, I asked an organiser if people ever left part-way through. "Oh, yes," she said. "Some have left with tyres squealing."

"I want my tyres to squeal right now," whispered my husband. I stifled a giggle.

We were again trapped in a lecture, so boring that I can't remember what it was about.

An elderly gentleman got up and shared his insights with us.  He puffed his chest out.

"When I'm looking forward to coming home to my wife, I feel like I'm a big...plump...juicy... apple," he said.

"Oh great," my husband whispered to me sarcastically, "now we get to learn about his sex-life."

The elderly man hunched over and touched his bony fingers together. 

 "When I've had an argument with my wife and not looking forward to coming home, I'm like shrivelled...wrinkley... dried-up...walnuts."

"Now the old goat's talking about his testicles," muttered my husband.

I tried not to laugh, "Funny, I thought the exact same thing - ugly mental picture," I whispered back.

We plotted our escape to take place ASAP.  First we had to get our car keys back that had been taken away from us when we checked in.  That wasn't too hard.

My husband tried his best to make his tyres squeal on the way out.  We were giggling hysterically like a couple of school-kids.

It was now evening, and we pulled up at a pasta restaurant. 

"Would you like meatball sauce on your spagetti?" asked the waitress. 

We both started laughing uncontrollably.  The waitress looked confused.  "Private joke, " I managed to get out, "not laughing at you."

We laughed for days.  We knew we were going to be just fine.