I don’t mean to pick on my husband. Much. He’s perfect for me. Those little deviations from pure-perfection are just additional things to ponder and love. Right? Right?
One of our, um, ongoing discussions revolves around the way he drives my car. Let’s just say he takes on a persona of abandon garnished with a bit of Steve McQueen when he slides behind the wheel. I don’t see this behavior when he drives his vehicle, and it irks me. Er, I mean it highlights the delightful differences we share in a lively marriage.
About a week ago said Steve McQueen-ish partner decided to use my low-slung car as an off-road baja contender. Actually he drove my car through an area of road construction clearly marked off with huge, blinding orange, I dare you to knock me over, highway cones. Every detail screamed, “Do not enter,” but my hubby thought that was for those less talented in the driving department.
I gripped the dash while frantically saying, “NO! Wait! We can go through the bank’s parking lot instead!” His response? He gunned it and slalomed through the cones and raw dirt like Lindsey Vonn chasing a gold medal in a downhill skiing event.
As we once again found black top he looked at me and said, “Hey, we could have gone through the bank’s parking lot instead.” My white knuckles clenched a bit and turned even whiter.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
“Well, you should learn to speak up.”
As he smiled his best Steve McQueen smile and gazed at me… instead what was in front of us…we hit the curb. Hard. The front end of my car made a sickly crunchy sound. “Oops!” He backed off the curb as more spirit draining sounds ensued.
We have an appointment to have the repairs made to my car in the near future. Yep, just minor deviations to pure perfection. His bad boy driving and ensuing contrite actions-though painful-were the best part of my day.