Smoking is repulsive to me.
I hate buffets, both for their excess and potential unsanitariness.
Bright lights and loud music put me into sensory overload (as do scratchy tags, but that's for another blog post!).
As soon as the thermometer moves its dial past 80 degrees, I run, desperately seeking shade.
My idea of an idyllic holiday is somewhere remote where I can hike and swim in the ocean and read frayed, used paperbacks while entrenching myself into the local history and culture.
In other words, Las Vegas is my nightmare vacation destination.
Yet, when my husband asked me recently to join him there for three days, I jumped on the chance. I got on a plane (which requires an Ativan) and flew to where it was 103 degrees and walked through the smoky lobbies of noisy casinos because my husband inexplicably loves Las Vegas. I did it because I very explicably love my husband and, time after time, he has joined me on my beachy, island vacations which are not his cup of sandy tea.
These past three days were like our relationship - not perfect, but through compromise pretty darn good. We laughed, drank (to the point I wound up with gum in my hair and don't remember it happening), ate some delicious non-buffet food, and had a great time together.
This weekend also worked -- like our marriage -- because we did things both together and separately. While my husband was playing in poker tournaments, I walked around the Bellagio looking at their beautiful ocean display (how appropriate!) before heading to their fine art museum. There, I lingered over Picasso linotypes and oil paintings and photos from his life.
Our time in Vegas, like the past 30 years together, was successful because we talked and talked, from the trivial (saffron does not belong in lobster pot pie) to the serious (how we are both in an emotional spiral over our son leaving).
Marriage is a gamble. Sometimes you win a little and sometimes you lose it all. And just sometimes, when Lady Luck -- and the right partner -- are on your side, you hit the jackpot.