I love traveling with my Type A husband

I went to Italy recently with my family (brag) and flew there and back alone, like the soldier I am. On the way there, I took the subway and AirTrain to JFK by myself, monitoring the subway stops actively as if I haven’t taken this route 25 times before. When I got to JFK and saw a huge check-in line for my very budget airline, I stood in line silently, reading my Kindle and eavesdropping tensely on the gate agents. When I got through security, I made a beeline for my gate. I scoped it out; I asked the gate attendants a question about meals on the plane (answer: no meals provided on our nine-hour direct flight, but available for purchase, which felt…illegal).I bought a protein bar because I simply DID NOT have time to buy a sandwich.

Today, I flew with my husband from JFK. He scheduled the Uber; he checked over the apartment before we left, touching the stove handles twenty times and making sure our perennially running toilet was silent. He walked around the terminal until we found the shortest bag-drop line. He pushed my luggage and took me to the Admiral’s Club, the most amazing flying perk to ever exist. I wandered around, aimlessly eating free fruit out of a paper cup, while he steered us relentlessly towards our gate.

This contrast highlights two things for me. One, I am fundamentally lazy if given the opportunity to be. Two, I am deeply, deeply grateful that I married a Type A only child. I put a lot—probably too much—faith in birth order as a predictor of traits, and let me tell you, I am confident that if Scott were a middle child or, God forbid, a younger brother to a capable older sister, I would be dragging him around the airport. He would be making cute conversation with the ladies at Admiral’s lounge check-in desk, and I would be the one checking my watch every 90 seconds to make sure boarding hadn’t started. He would be smiling at babies, and I would be motioning for him to get on the moving sidewalk.

Of course, this dynamic presents a different set of challenges (see: Scott confidently telling me that I’m a “bad” packer; Scott double-checking the door lock twice even though I already checked it). Of course, I know there’s a balance to be aspired towards, where we’re both managing flows of responsibility concurrently. We will, and we do, sometimes, strike that balance appropriately. But oh my God, do I love being taken care of. Brain off; husband on.