Tag: marriage

Shooshed by the Passenger Prince

The Passenger Prince shooshed me today — shooshed me! — as I was driving him to work.

Me. The one who wakes up early just to be his driver.

The Passenger Prince has been medically banned from driving ever since I sent him to Costco to buy dog food, and instead, he had a seizure somewhere between the BBQ chicken and the sushi display. We often joke that he suffered from sticker shock.

Ever since that day, he’s had to give up his independence and rely on me as his personal chauffeur. The early days were rough. I was told how to drive. My music choices were critiqued. I received many complaints.

But somehow, over the past several months, the Passenger Prince has grown accustomed to his new life of luxury. He does Duolingo, takes calls, and scrolls his phone while I navigate traffic and speed bumps.

And today — in my own car — I was shooshed.

Since this shocking shooshing incident, I’m now considering a demotion for the Passenger Prince: relocating him to the backseat, where there are no seat warmers, no audio controls, and no royal privileges. The dogs, meanwhile, are up for promotion to the coveted passenger throne.

Then again… I did not marry the dogs.
So maybe his crown is safe — for now.

Life in the driver’s seat

One of my favorite radio personalities used to start his show by saying, “Today is better than most, but not as good as some.”
 Today was one of those not as good as some days.

We got the latest blood test results, and besides not getting the news we were hoping for, we didn’t get any answers about why the seizure happened in the first place. Instead, the results only led to more questions—and more anxiety. It feels like we’re not even close to understanding what’s really going on, let alone finding a solution.

The stress, anxiety, disappointment, and resulting anger definitely made themselves known. I tend to hide my anxiety better than my “passenger prince”—which probably explains my stress-induced autoimmune issues.

While the focus is on him, his treatment, and his recovery, I keep reminding myself that I need to take care of myself too.
My tears were well hidden behind my sunglasses and the need to keep my eyes on the road. He didn’t see—or maybe didn’t notice—my mood.

Life in the driver’s seat isn’t fun. There’s no GPS to route us to a fun destination. But just like the car I drive, maintenance is required—to keep both the vehicle and me running.

My life in the driver seat

Our lives changed this year — some for the better, some for the worse. We got a rescue dog. Our middle daughter got married. We gained a son-in-law and a new grand-dog. There were joyful events, stressful ones, and then… there was the moment now forever known as The Great Costco Seizure.

It happened back in August. My significant other — now referred to as the Passenger Prince — had a seizure. Somewhere between the BBQ chicken and the sushi display. I had sent him in to get dog food. He had other plans.

After a seizure, you’re not allowed to drive until a doctor clears you. That takes time — tests galore, appointments galore. And when you’re a two-working-adult household, it also means rearranging schedules, adapting routines, and me stepping into my new role as Warrior Princess — chauffeur, scheduler, and snack-bringer — while he became the ever-regal Passenger Prince.

Some days with the Prince are better than most. We have great conversations… and some less-than-great ones. Lucky for him, he now has me hostage every morning when I take him to work. I get to hear all about investments, the Fidelity and Vanguard accounts, and market fluctuations — again. These are topics we’ve already covered many times, but now, trapped in the car, I get the deluxe version. Normally, I can turn off my hearing aids. But when I’m driving, unfortunately, I need my hands.

Some days are less charming. Yesterday, we went to the dentist together for a couples’ teeth-cleaning date. This morning, I was the driver to the blood test appointment. I was told exactly where to park — which I ignored — and waited in the car while juggling work calls.

He came out with a plain bandage. Apparently, there are no dinosaur-themed bandages for adults.

At this point, I’m seriously considering getting us matching track suits. Warrior Princess and Passenger Prince. Maybe then — just maybe — my life will be complete.

Is Pilates a Form of Torture? Maybe. But It’s My Stress Relief! 

I love Pilates and most of the instructors at my studio. But some days, a class feels like a game of Twister — a game that, if I were 20 years (or even ten) younger, might have felt easy.

These days, though, each class is a little harder. My body hurts. And yet I keep going, again and again, and accept the pain.

This morning’s Twister routine? One hand on the box, one hand on the reformer bar, one leg on the shoulder block, and the other leg in the air. It hurts just to describe it. Somehow, I managed to tackle all these instructions. Honestly, I was just grateful the instructor didn’t ask us to sing a song — that would’ve been the end of me.

After all that, she came over and corrected my posture for the next exercise. Apparently, my leg is capable of a 90-degree angle. She told me she did it out of “love.” Probably a love of pain.

And yet, I go three to four times a week and wonder: how bad would it be if I didn’t take Pilates?

Why do I do this to myself? Because it’s good for my body — even if I hate it sometimes — and it’s very good for my soul.

Two months ago, my husband had a seizure. Since then, my regular stress life has turned into full-blown stress — with no relief in sight. Stress relief, for me, means not thinking for a little while. But when you’re stressed, your mind races, and you can’t stop thinking.

Enter: Pilates.

I get so caught up in the Twister-like shenanigans during class that thinking becomes impossible. The only thing on my mind is: Is my balance working? Are all my body parts where they’re supposed to be?

I don’t care that I’m not wearing a cute matching Pilates outfit. All that matters in that class is stress relief.

I am stronger now — at least physically. Mentally, my brain is still trying to figure out all those crazy Pilates moves… without falling.

Conversations from the Driver’s Seat

My life as a driver continues—although I got a break yesterday, as my husband had a friend take him to work. That gave me the rare opportunity to sleep in. Well, to “sleep in” until 7:20 a.m., when Shuki, the family dog, decided I’d slept enough.

I needed a driving break—not because driving itself was the problem, but because someone at work decided to stick an early meeting on my calendar. A meeting I couldn’t take from the car because, of course, they needed to see my face.

Not all meetings are productive. This one definitely wasn’t. Not due to lack of preparation or context, but because of the participants.

When we’re faced with change—professional or personal—we’re not always open to it. There’s fear involved: fear of leaving our comfort zones and confronting challenges that force us to adapt. I couldn’t quite understand the strong reaction in that meeting. I saw the big picture. I had already been part of the transition being discussed. So I was surprised by the resistance.

Back in the driver’s seat today, I shared all of this with my husband. He offered a perspective I hadn’t considered: that people often resist change not because they don’t understand it, but because they’re afraid—afraid of having to learn new things, of stepping into unfamiliar roles, of failing.

Driving still isn’t something I enjoy. I much prefer my “passenger princess” role. We’re still waiting on his medical test results, which is why I’ve taken on this new morning routine. But these forced drives have brought one unexpected benefit: the chance to talk. With our opposing work schedules, we rarely get that during the week.

I still get annoyed when he tells me how to drive. But I do appreciate these small, quiet moments we share together.

From a Passenger Princess to a Warrior Princess

I used to be a passenger princess—and I loved it. My husband did all the driving while I relaxed in the passenger seat, helping with directions, reading a book, or scrolling through social media.

We love road trips, and I probably enjoyed them more because I didn’t have to drive. But then, the seizure came. One moment, my handsome chauffeur was behind the wheel, and the next, I became the driver—and he, the passenger prince.

Let’s just say… he hasn’t adjusted to his new princely status very well. In fact, he’s still learning the etiquette of being a proper passenger prince.

The transition from being the driver (and occasional backseat driver) to sitting quietly in the passenger seat has been a tough one for him. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s asked, “Did you see that car?” or “Why are you taking this route instead of the other one?” and plenty more unsolicited driving commentary.

What’s funny is that for years, I drove the kids around while he never seemed to care how I drove. But now? Suddenly, I’m under review like I’m applying for a chauffeur’s license.

I try to respond with humor—most of the time. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t occasionally want to turn him into a frog.

This new role as the warrior princess behind the wheel doesn’t come with an expiration date. My patience, however, occasionally does.

Here’s hoping he gives me five stars on Yelp.

Do Size and Shape Matter? In Salads—and Marriage—Maybe They Do

Do Size and Shape Matter? In Salads—and Marriage—Maybe They Do

I love salads—real salads with vegetables in them. Not the kind often served in the United States, which usually means a pile of lettuce and two or three tiny pieces of tomato. Where I come from, some of these leafy greens are considered butcher counter decoration!

My salads are filled with tomatoes, cucumbers, radishes—all chopped into good-sized chunks so you can actually tell what you’re biting into. My husband, on the other hand, loves his lettuce, and he prefers all his vegetables cut into small, even pieces. To be honest, his salads are a display of care and engineering. Everywhere we’re invited, people ask him to make the salad!

My husband is an engineer, and he looks the part—organized, symmetrical, and precise. I’m a little different. I find things that are too orderly boring and unstimulating. So, naturally, my salads (and fruit cutting) reflect that—slightly uneven and far from perfect.

That’s why I usually let him cut the vegetables and fruit—because he gets annoyed with the way I do it! Truthfully, it makes my life easier. He’s technically in charge of prep work and dinner, and I’m more than happy to do the dishes.

When he complained this morning about the “variety of styles” I used to cut the watermelon last week, I laughed and asked if it affected the taste. He agreed it didn’t—but still had to point out that he prefers even sizes.

But, as with most things in marriage, life is a compromise. I cut veggies into big chunks, and he cuts them into small, very even ones. The taste is the same, the complaints are the same—but this is our little dance, and we enjoy it.

Living with a Height Difference: Shelf Life Struggles

We are a house divided, but not by sports teams or political views. It’s something far more concrete—our height—and, more specifically, where we place things on shelves.

I’m what you might call fun-sized, or, as others might say, petite, vertically challenged, or short. My other half, however, is above average height—at 6’2″, we literally have a whole foot of difference between us. I’ve been short all my life, so this was hardly a surprise to him when we got married.

I used to wear heels—heck, I could even run in them. But in the last 30 years, things have changed. Since having kids, I swapped stilettos for sneakers. Playgrounds, strollers, and dog walking are much easier in flats!

Now, my taller half prefers everything to be placed higher up. As for me? I constantly need a step stool just to reach anything. I’ve developed a rather uncanny ability to use everyday utensils to grab things from high shelves, but let’s be real—I’d much rather have everything within reach.

I always thought it was easier to bend down than to reach up, but I might have been wrong. He can never seem to find anything that’s at my eye level. Meanwhile, I’ve learned that shelves at my height are the perfect place to hide things in plain sight from him.

I really tried to compromise. I moved some everyday items to a taller shelf, but that didn’t seem to solve the problem.

Yesterday, he complained about not finding anything because I’d put all the common items on lower shelves. I reminded him, jokingly, that I’ve always been short. He didn’t have a response. Guess there’s no winning when it comes to height!

Benchmarks or how I became a prune.

A year and a half ago I broke my foot, it was completely my fault as instead of looking where I was going, my eyes were glued to my cell phone and I stepped down a step straight onto my dog’s 3 pronged nylabone and lost my balance. Completely avoidable!

Showering was not fun with a broken foot as I needed to sit in a chair in the shower and where the chair could be positioned meant I could not reach the on/off valve. I am after all  what some people call “fun size” or vertically challenged. That meant that my husband had to be around and turn the water off for me. And here lies the problem, he forgot me. He sometimes had to answer work calls or someone pinged him on teams and he just forgot me. He claims he really did not forget, he was just getting around to it, really. While I was sitting in the shower with the water all over me I considered adding a middle name , Prune. You would think that sitting in the warm water is nice, it is, to a point. I managed, god knows how, to get up on one functioning leg, turn off the faucet and get out of the shower while maneuvering the chair to do this. Surprisingly I did not break any other bones in my body or the shower glass door on my way out. There is something to be said about being short in a tall world, I learned tricks and ways to reach.

We  are finally  remodeling our shower, a shower that is just slightly younger than me but in many ways is stronger than me. After we agreed to compromise and my husband compromised in letting me choose whatever weird tile I wanted, the topic of adding a bench or shelf came up. My husband suggested a bench so the next time I break my foot we will not need to use a chair. My response was, thank you for the vote of confidence but why would you think I am planning on breaking my foot or anything else again? Quiet.

After a while he expanded that we might need to add some support fixtures in the future so a bench is a good idea. Now, it is a good idea as I will be able to put the shampoos and shower stuff nicely on this bench, not exactly what he meant. He suggested we put the bench on one side of the shower and could not understand what my issue was. I explained again that I am short with a very small wing span and will not be able to reach the valve from the bench. Apparently after being together 35 years he never noticed that I am a head and a half shorter than him. 

We are currently at a stand still about this great bench, it will be another bench mark in our ongoing relationship.