There are days when I wonder how exactly my husband and I ended up together. We can be so different. Vastly different.

I like to discuss everything. He likes discussing only politics. I loved “Friends”. He would leave the room whenever I turned it on. I follow recipes. He makes it all up as he goes along. (Ask him about his eggless banana bread sometime. Go ahead.) I get all emotional during movies. His face remains motionless, even in the most gut-wrenching instances. I love Dave Matthews. He changes the CD whenever I’m out of earshot. I love Christmas. He hates it. (Yep, I married Scrooge.)

I’ve always been slightly afraid to take those cheesy couple surveys you find in some of the women’s magazines because I’m sure that the answers will show that we’re highly incompatible and should pack it all in right away.

I shouldn’t worry, though, because there ain’t no way Scott would ever fill out one of those surveys. So our glaring differences can remain safely under wraps.

To be fair, the differences aren’t really that glaring. For all of the things we disagree on, there are plenty of agreeable moments to balance it out. (I should list those here, but it would break the flow of my narrative.)

Yep, we’ve got balance. Except when one of us gets behind the wheel of a car.

Seriously.

In no area of our lives are the differences as obvious and alarming as when we’re in a vehicle together. And plenty of arguments have sprung up along the roadways to prove this. In Philadelphia. In Vancouver. In Bar Harbor. Anywhere we’ve motored along together. And considering we did more than 1,800 miles worth of driving during one of our earlier trips, I’m totally surprised we ended up at the altar.

We both think our way of driving is the right way. He winces when I go around corners. I grab the “help me” handle when he merges onto highways. He lectures me on how closely I follow other cars. I roll my eyes when he gets behind a truck on the highway. And stays there. For miles. Driving 55 in a 70 as all of humanity passes us by. He drives like the proverbial little old lady.

So when we pulled out onto Boston this morning in separate cars, him on his way to drop of Devin, me on my way to work, his speed didn’t surprise me. The posted limit is 25. Most people tear through at 35, regardless of kids, dogs and joggers. I stand by my principles and keep it around 27. My husband? He barely makes 20.

There I was, puttering along behind him as several cars jockeyed behind me, trying to determine why they were forced to slow down. Instead of the usual frustration, though, I giggled. I giggled and I grinned as I watched him making his way gingerly along, my son’s little head barely visible in the window. He’s MY little old lady and I love him.