My husband is a dreamer, or perhaps more accurately, an imaginer. He’s really great at it and I’m often envious. He dreams of perfect places with ideal prices and beautiful perfection where things are easy and surprises are only ever good. He’s all possibility and brightness.
Me? I’m a planner. I dream (if you can call it dreaming) of the end result that follows the actions I can clearly see between now and there. I spend my effort on the immense puzzle of taking realistic limitations and finding solutions. I’m all action and practicality.
And I can’t window shop. Because of my think-solve-act personality, I quickly go from looking to wanting to obsessing to disappointment. My husband? A champion window shopper, honing his wants over a long period of intense research and surfing.
That our discussions about moving from our magical house to a sometime-in-the-future-fabulous-house often deteriorate into time-out’s, then, isn’t much of a surprise. We come at life from different angles, something that makes us a great team but tough companion dreamers. To him, I’m an argumentative downer who pokes holes in everything wonderful he dreams of and never leaves open the possibility of fantasticness. To me, he’s completely and utterly impractical in his unwillingness to accept the limitations of reality and make trade-off’s among his various wants.
On the bright side, we are successful at deteriorating into silence over shouts, great progress from our first year of marriage. The frustrating other side is that “dreaming” is much less rainbows and butterflies and much more critical assessment of needs versus wants.
“Your version of reality is just different than mine,” I said today. Mine is the most probable line between now and then; his is the most wonderful. When I’m calm enough to see the bigger picture, I’m reassured that our pieces fit together as they should. When I’m not, I start to wish.