Compromise.

Marriage.  It really is the true test of all things compromise.

It’s that time in your life when you learn to give of yourself for the sake of something greater rather than indulging in that thing or activity or small pettiness which, sure would give you endless satisfaction in the short term, but would cause damage to the institution which you are building for the ages.

It means not going up to that incredibly taut-looking twenty-something and saying something which might get you slapped, but then again might get you access to her . . . *ahem* . . . might make you best friends, and instead you just file away what could have been in your mental image vault.  Right there towards the back next to pictures of Christina Hendricks doing jumping jacks.

It means not correcting your wife when she moans the name “Eric the Viking” in bed.  Because even though YOU know that the correct term is “Eric Northman,” not just because it’s the name on the stupid show she’s been forcing you to watch; but also because it’s way more historically correct, since unlike someone else apparently, YOU know that calling someone “Eric the Viking” is like calling someone “Bob-the-smelly-raping-honorless-pirate,” and was likely to get said person spitted (and not in the way she was clearly hoping for at the moment) . . . you let it go.  Because saying something would kill the mood.

It ALSO means doing things like driving all over creation for BabyDoc appointments.  A lot.  Three times a week.

And when I say “All over creation,” please examine the map that I used Google Maps to create below for illumination:

babydoc

Note:  Only slightly exaggerated for amusement factor.

So we live way out on the farthest eastern edge of Mesa, AZ.  The BabyDoc’s office is out in Avondale, by the new Cardinal’s stadium.  Readers in Arizona realize that this is nearly 50 miles of driving through something like 4 different cities, including one major downtown Metropolis.  And we get to do this three times a week right now.  Why?  Oh, just to check to make sure the baby is still moving.  No, really.  They want to keep checking in because Charming is “of advanced age” for mothers (over 35, but you didn’t hear it from me), and that means there’s more risk.

I’m all for mitigating risk, but if there’s all that risk, why don’t we mitigate it by, oh, I don’t know, inducing the baby?  If he’s in so much fucking danger let’s GET HIM OUT OF THERE.  This does not seem to be rocket surgery.

So what was I saying?  Oh yeah, compromise.  So despite the fact that A) this place is crazy far and B) the BabyDoc is just crazy crazy, Charming just loves her.  So we keep going.  Because marriage is about compromise.  Or something like that.

I’m going back to my vault.  It’s safer in there.  And there are boobs.

Advertisements

One thought on “Compromise.

  1. We don’t keep my girlfriend Christina in a vault. That’s cruel. We keep her in the basement. With her friends, Sophia Vergara and Eric Nopants…um, Northman.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s