My wife and I have much in common.
We like to take long road trips. We like similar music. We both like a range of singers and groups from U2 to Tim McGraw, Classical to Broadway, harder edged alternative to even metal.
And we both like to read for enjoyment, her, mystery and crime novels, me, biographies, historical fiction, and fantasy.
We have one major difference.
The fork in the road
When our kids are all grown-up and solidly on their own two feet, she wants to sell our house and run away and become a missionary, serving the poor and the needy, in some far off Third World country. Yup, she dreams of building houses, teaching kids the rest of the world has cast-off to read, and helping clothe and feed the poor.
I, on the other hand, want to sell our house and move to the beach. I’d settle for deep in the mountains, but my first preference is the beach. I dream of lounging under a shady beach umbrella, surrounded by deep blue water and crystal white sand, with a cool drink in one hand and a book in the other.
My wife wants to save the world; I want to take the best the world has to offer. I have to be honest that I’m not sure what this means, other than she’s obviously the better half — the kinder, gentler, more loving soul — when it comes to the two of us.
The end result
In any event, I suspect that one day I’ll be reluctantly getting a malaria shot and packing my bags. These are the type of decisions that all married couples have to reach a happy medium. While I may be slow and will most definitely be shuffling my feet, I’m certainly not dumb. I know what’s best for me. I may have to put my dream on hold for a few years, but I’m sticking with her.
One day I’ll get to that beachfront property. I just might have to first take a side trip to the far reaches of the world.
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