I am writing this blog post from the passenger seat of my minivan, en route to Boston for a family gathering. Whether we will make it or not has yet to be determined, for – in a fit of temporary insanity – I am letting my husband drive.
Oh, not the whole six hours, of course. Just the last one. I would have been fine to keep driving, but he finished the book he brought along and is bored, so at the last rest area I handed over the keys.
I had to yell at him three times before we were back on the highway.
My husband isn’t really a bad driver (though we won't mention that spell when he got about four speeding tickets in eighteen months). He's simply not me. He drives differently and makes the bed differently and packs differently. And because his way isn’t my way, and I am the Queen of All I Survey, in my eyes, he's doing it wrong.
(Oh no. He just switched the radio to something hard rock'ish. Shoot me now.)
We all know that relationships require compromise. Romance readers and writers probably know this better than most, as it's the core of our stories – two people with radically different stances on one or more areas, searching for a middle ground (damn it, he took his hand off the wheel again!) where they can be together. Sometimes it can take a heck of a lot of searching. (Can he not settle on one speed for the wipers?) But our characters know that the struggle is worth it, for that middle ground is the place where they find love.
After thirty-three years together, it's a lesson my husband and I know very well, too.
But so help me, if he doesn't stop tailgating the truck in front of us, we may be back to searching again. Very very soon.