My husband Alan and I are wired differently.

I remember a few years ago when we took a hike with our children near the ghost town of Calico, on the way to Death Valley. Suddenly a tiny snake slithered across Alan’s path.

“What kind is it?” 9-year-old Julia asked. “Probably a gopher snake,” Alan said, “although it could be a baby rattlesnake.” Too late I yelled, “Don’t pick it up!” Alan dropped it as it bit him. We screamed. He headed back to the car with Julia to get a Band-aid. I stormed down the trail with 12-year-old Josh. “Why did he do that?” I fumed. “He could die and leave us in the middle of nowhere. How did I end up with him?” Josh turned to me with a smile. “Mom,” he said. “You married him so you’d have more fun, and he married you so he wouldn’t get killed!”

I still smile at my son’s insight.

Alan survived the snakebite, and manages to get me to do things I wouldn’t do alone. I’m a veteran waterskier and wakerboarder now, and have even been known to go on a vacation without making reservations. He confidently lead the way for me and our border collie on a snowshoe adventure during a storm last month.