We have nothing in common
I like to get up early. She likes to lie in bed. I like the overhead fan on medium or high. She hates drafts. I like natural grains and somewhat spicy foods. She can’t tolerate natural grains and somewhat spicy foods.
I want to be early to every appointment. She cuts it close every time. I have a great sense of direction. She has gotten lost two blocks from our home.
She cannot tell a lie, not even a small fib. I have been known to massage the truth. She was brought up Catholic. I was brought up Jewish.
I can see the same favorite movie—“Invasion of the Body Snatchers” or maybe “The 39 Steps”—again and again, sometimes consecutively. She will say, “you just saw that.” I can listen to the same old song—4 Non Blondes doing “What’s Up?” or Rod Stewart singing “Maggie May” on repeat, pressing the button again and again. She will hit the button to stop me or turn off the remote because we just heard that.
She has no interest in sports and hates watching sports on TV. Maybe the worst four hours of her life was attending a college football game from unforgiving concrete bleachers on a cold and rainy early afternoon in November. I love sports, even on TV, and a large part of my professional career was devoted to watching sports events and going to games.
I can pack for a two-week trip in about an hour, throwing everything into a suitcase and then forcing it shut. Her packing process for a two-week trip begins at least two weeks earlier and undergoes multiple revisions and innumerable questions about “should I bring this or that?”
She has beautiful handwriting. No one, including me most of the time, can make out my illegible scrawls.
She doesn’t mind making a doctor’s appointment or checking in with her PCP if there’s some physical thing that’s bothering her. I try very hard not to tell anyone—including her—and surely not my doctor if I have any physical problem that’s bothering me.
She likes to walk. I like to run.
She enjoys group exercise classes. I will only work out alone.
I like to cook and hate to clean up. She likes to clean up and doesn’t enjoy cooking. I hate to bake. She likes to bake. I improvise from recipes. She follows them to the letter.
She folds laundry and puts things away carefully so there are never any creases in the clothes she puts on. I “fold” haphazardly and will go out of the house wearing a t-shirt that’s been shmushed for months and looks like I had been sleeping in it for weeks.
She gets extremely nervous about any kind of public speaking and then gets very upset if she thinks she appeared very nervous while public speaking. I am a natural showoff and embrace all opportunities to perform in front of a crowd.
I’m the household tech guy, as tech-challenged as I am, because I can generally follow Google instructions while she gets flustered when her phone or laptop or iPad doesn’t quite work and gets completely lost in the woods.
I love salted caramel ice cream. She thinks it’s an abomination and that salty and sweet don’t belong together in the same concoction.
This week, we celebrated our 55th anniversary.