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After our wedding 20 years ago, my husband, Alvin, and I loaded our meager belongings into a 5'x8' U-Haul trailer. Instead of sunbathing on Tahiti's black sand beaches, we honeymooned our way cross-country from Washington to graduate school in Connecticut. (I don't recommend this.)

Our fraying wedded bliss unraveled in Omaha. That night, my groom yelled, "Don't show me the map! Tell me the exit number!"

"But—" I pointed to the map. "Just look! Right here—oh, wait, we passed it!"

He swerved off I-80 in grim silence. We'd driven hours longer than planned, finding every hotel in Nebraska full of roller-skating conventioneers. Now, Omaha held sweet promise. Also, it was our last hope.

I cried in the car while he checked for a room. His outburst confirmed my worst fears. A man who loved his bride wouldn't yell at her.

Three days on the road as a newlywed led to an undeniable truth: My husband hated me. How else to explain his dim view of my navigational skills?

I expected more. After all, we'd both read marriage books. I'd assumed we'd hold hands all the way to Connecticut. While rainbows arched over the highway. My husband wasn't supposed to shout, and I wasn't supposed to pout.

As we motored in our Chevy Blazer, little did we realize that we'd plunged into the nitty-gritty of married life. And we began to learn lessons that would guide us through tough times over the next 20 years.

As it turns out, not everyone can read a map. My husband hates maps, which puzzles me still. On the other hand, I got a thrill when I purchased my Rand McNally atlas for our recent road trip to California (with four kids in the back: do not try this at home). Alvin steadfastly refuses to glance at the red squiggly lines, asking only one thing: what exit?  

We navigate the world using different skills. I need information. I want details, landmarks, historical facts, mileage estimates. He needs only to know if and when he should change course. That's it. He's Steady Eddy, eyes on the road, safety on his mind.

While I study routes, options, and destinations, he steers between the lines. His calm balances my freaking out. His focus keeps us on track. He reminds me every time I shove my foot on the imaginary passenger-side brake that he's never had an accident.

I entered marriage believing my way was the only way, thus the right way. Twenty years later and I realize many roads lead to the same place. We can both be right. Who'd have guessed? We're on the same team, heading into the wild blue yonder. We'll arrive together, even if I'm the only one tracking the mileage.

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