Battle of the the French Fries

Sometimes married couples fight about the most insubstantial things. The absurdity of these arguments, however, does not dilute their passion. The marriage contract requires so many personal concessions that once in a while a partner may find herself gripping desperately to a scrap of autonomy. For me, it was McDonald's french fries.

Mr. Wicke and I were on our way to the airport. Already past the noon hour, we knew we needed something to eat before boarding our plane. And here is one of the many areas in which we differ. To me, ease trumps money. Mr. Wicke disagrees. The artificially high price of airport food goads him in principle. And while I agree that there is an element of price gouging, I don't really care. I'd rather pay a couple of bucks more just to make things easier. That said, with Thomas driving, we were pulling through the drive through of McDonald's just before reaching the airport, which meant to me that we were going to be eating hurriedly in the car and, more likely, dragging our meal with us, along with all of our bags, and eating it cold once we got inside. Perhaps that made me grouchy on the outset.

It got worse.

"Welcome to McDonald's. How may I help you?" came the voice from the tin box.

Thomas looked to me awaiting my decision. "Ummm...I'll have the number 4 with cheese and a diet coke."

Then, to the tin box, Thomas says, "We'll have a number four with cheese, supersize the fries--"

"I don't want a large fry!"

"--and a diet coke with that..."

"I don't want a large french fry," I repeated more loudly. I felt like a pesky gnat buzzing at his ear which he casually flicked away.

"And then a Big and Tasty..."

"I don't want a large french fry!!" I was nearly shouting now.

Finally with equal irritation, he responded, "We're gonna' share!"

Now in every marriage, there comes a time when one has to ask, "Is this the hill I'm going to die on?" At that moment the answer was a resounding yes!

As he began to pull forward, I cried, "I don't want to share!"

"What is your problem?!"

That quieted me for a moment. Not happily, but it did quiet me because while my elevated blood pressure indicated that I, indeed, did have a problem, I didn't know exactly what that problem was. Why was this hill so important to me?

And then I had a recollection. I remembered as a child sitting in the back of our family car, pulling through a drive through ever so long ago.

"I want a fish sandwich! I want a fish sandwich!"

My dad paid no heed. "We'll have four hamburger deluxes--

"But I don't want a--"

"--with onion and extra pickle."

"But I don't like onions--"

"Then I'll eat it!"

I sank back in my seat, my arms folded defiantly across my chest and mumbled under my breath, "When I get big I'm going to get anything I want!"

And here I was, big, and still not getting what I wanted. The only thing left to do was to sit back, fold my arms defiantly across my chest and say, "When I outlive you, I'm going to get anything I want!"

This was evidently a hill on which I was just going to have to outlast him.