Roisin Gorman’s Open Letter on… honeymoons

‘The anticipation of an all-inclusive fortnight of cocktails had already been slightly dampened by a positive pregnancy test’

Ben and Jen may have had the dream honeymoon, but regular couples have more craic

Sunday World

J.Lo’s honeymoon was like sitting through someone’s holiday pictures. You smile politely, ‘ooh’ occasionally and pray for it to end.

In many days of hand-in-hand action in the city of love with new husband Ben Affleck — who, like flares, came back into fashion after 20 years — the newlyweds were hard to miss.

Beauty editors drooled over the admittedly gorgeous Birkin bag and Gucci evening gown as the pair strolled through Paris. I was less convinced by the flowery frock and beige cardi combo and the attempts to heap rapturous praise on a ponytail: ‘Woman ties hair back’ is sometimes just a woman tying her hair back.

You’ve also got to love a man who’s OK with timing the impromptu Vegas wedding with the wife’s bum cream launch. The new Mrs Jennifer Affleck timed the release of her booty balm from the JLo Beauty Firm + Flaunt range for slap bang in the middle of the ‘moon. Clearly, those buttocks don’t moisturise themselves.

In a model of understatement, it was accompanied by an Instagram countdown to her 53rd birthday — I’ll cry quietly later; a video of Jennifer applying the cream to the appropriate area for the more beauty-challenged among us; and a 60-foot poster of the stunning singer in the nip. I’m not sure if even Ben has seen that much of Jen’s naked flesh, and he’s seen more than most of us.

The honeymoon is usually when couples tuck themselves away from the world to enjoy their newly minted nuptials. But a girl doesn’t stay at the top of the tree for 30 years by passing up a publicity opportunity, so we all went too — with a team of stylists, a wardrobe the size of Belgium and a security detail.

Her flawlessness, even in a beige cardi, had me reaching for photos of my own dream honeymoon, a once-in-a-lifetime Caribbean adventure which was slightly less picture-perfect.

There was that first glorious morning, strolling towards the sea across the white sandy beach, before swiftly realising the sand was the temperature of lava and having to run for the surf before my soles dissolved.

The anticipation of an all-inclusive party fortnight of cocktails and rum had already been slightly dampened by a positive pregnancy test, so it was less fiesta and more siesta.

With an apparently heightened sense of smell in the permanently humid climate, the inescapable whiff of damp drove me mad, especially when I worked out it was from everything. Including the pillows, and now my face.

The crowning glory of those heady sun-dappled days was the stroll in the surf which washed the factor 50 off. Cue one badly sunburned foot, which swelled to the size of a football and led to some Quasimodo-style shuffling through the beach babes.

J.Lo would have been massaging her undimpled booty poolside and rocking a ponytail as a fashion statement. I came home with the big foot.

My honeymoon experience wasn’t that bad compared to a friend’s when she got sunstroke. In Edinburgh. It may be Scotland’s only documented case.

But looking back, a honeymoon is just a holiday and we’ve had many more memorable ones, including the dog attack in Scotland, the five-day runs in Spain, missing the ferry back from France by a day, and the flooded Welsh cottage.

I’ll bet they were all more fun than navigating the paparazzi in Paris while strategizing your bum cream launch. Still, congratulations and all that.

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