"For better or for worse?" I was at our home in Collinsville. That's where we raised our kids, made our mortgage payments for 30 years, and to which we often retreat. Diane called and said, "When you come back to campus, please bring that gallon of paint." Lest I forget, I got it, opened the car hatch, and put it right in.
Moving forward, I'm driving back to St. Louis on a city street. I was day-dreaming, yes, I admit it, when all of a sudden I came to and had to hit the brakes to avoid a rear-ender. "What's that smell?" I wondered. Yup, one gallon of paint all over the back of the car.
How am I going to explain this to Diane? "Diane, why didn't you put that lid on more securely the last time you used it?" She'll say, "Dale, why didn't you set it on the floor? Why were you tail-gating?"
So what happened? Each of us made a feeble attempt to lay blame but instinctively knew it wasn't worth an argument. Let me correct that. Not instinctively; it was the result of 38 years of marriage, years of learning it's "we" not "me." We worked together to clean up my mess. "The two shall become one."