The Holidaying Swiss Male – An Oxymoron?

I live with an Alpha male.  Not the king of the jungle type, the quieter but no less ambitious animal, who when faced with the prospect of a family holiday goes into over-drive fearing the collapse of the western world’s economy if he spends a few days in the sun drinking margaritas.

I put it down to his early Protestant upbringing – too much of a good thing being bad for you and enjoyment of any kind frowned upon and unmerited.  Because of this, plus his tendency to draw on his adrenalin reserves sucking them dry just before we leave, he has, in the past, come down with any bug within a 1,000 kilometre radius.  If someone sneezed in Stockholm he was doomed to spend his holiday lying in a hotel room or inert on a sunbed.

Polling my women friends I hear it is a common syndrome amongst men and effects women as well although as with the Man Cold, we females tend to make less of a fuss.  An in-depth research in Holland concluded that 3% of the population suffer from Vacation/Leisure Sickness.  The most frequently reported symptoms being headaches, muscular pain, flu-like symptoms and colds.  But it is like Sick Building Syndrome or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome – you can’t help but be a little suspicious and think that it is all in the mind. 

I had to come up with a plan, change husbands or resign never to go on holiday again.  Read on to find out how I did it.

The Riot Act

Loyal readers of my blogs will have already read about the time we went to an Ashram and how on day two he bent down to tie his shoe laces and stayed there.  Thus began my role of fetch/carrier, food bearer and sole babysitter to our three year old daughter for the remaining 12 days. Paradise Island will always remain in my mind as Dante’s inferno - the sound of waves crashing the shore makes me sick with exhaustion.  

So I started to read the Riot Act, loudly but obviously not loud enough as the next holiday disaster struck mid-flight before we had even got a wiff of bougainvillea.  I noticed that Mr. Jules was visiting the bathroom on more occasions than a transatlantic flight warranted, but I started to get really worried when he began walking strangely then hobbled John Wayne style off the plane, but I was damned if I was going to ask him about it.  We found the hire car, negotiated the alien Highway system and made it to the house we were house-swapping with (concrete, steel and glass with infinity pool set in hills outside San Francisco yipppeee) before he timidly told me, sweat shining on his brow, that his testicle was the size of a grapefruit. 

The Three Day Plan

It turned out to be nothing that a short bedrest and strong antibiotics couldn’t cure but obviously the riot act wasn’t working - I needed more than a potential riot to scare this man into changing his ways.    So I came up with The Three Day Plan.  Three days before departure he cancels all meetings working solely from home.  Two days before he only takes social calls and on the third day he actually switches off his computer – always tricky this one as this is akin to shutting off a lung.  This way he does not start the holiday like some demented wound up Duracell Bunny waiting to crash.

So I have spent the weekend alternatively packing, eating and drinking wine.  Mr. Jules, already in holiday mood, has twice cooked me dinner: Baudroie with white asparagus and hollandaise and Moules Marinière with linguine.  I can already taste the watermelon margaritas…

Copyright Jules Ritter March 2008