We judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their actions…Stephen Covey

In June, my wife Melinda and I will celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. One would think after a quarter of a century of marriage, I’d have this whole husband thing figured out. I don’t. Like all couples, we’ve had our share of disagreements and forgiveness has played a vital role in the success of our marriage. Most of our fights haven’t resulted from one of us intentionally wronging the other; our arguments usually result from one of us (usually me) making a stupid, yet good intentioned, mistake. Author Stephen Covey said, “We judge ourselves by our intentions and others by their actions.” When the results of the other person’s actions cause us discomfort or pain, too often we only see the pain, not the intentions of the person on the other side. Forgiveness is more than just refusing to hold a grudge against an enemy. We must also do our best to understand the other person’s intentions and motivations, especially in those we love.

I’ve always been a car guy, probably because my Dad was a car guy – and not just a car guy, a GM car guy. My older siblings all had Camaros and the accompanying ‘80s mullets (even my sister), so of course, as the baby of the family, I followed suit with my first car. When I was fifteen, Dad found a fairly solid 1978 Firebird Formula for $1,000 and we spent the next several months fixing it up. Well, Dad did all the work, but I was really good at holding the flashlight and handing him tools, so it was still technically a “we” project. Regardless, we had that 400-engine purring by my sixteenth birthday and I was officially a car guy.

I don’t know if it’s the memories of working with my dad or just the love of cool cars, but being a car-guy becomes engrained in a person; having a cool car almost becomes part of your identity. As a car guy, practicality has no impact on your vehicle-related decisions – horsepower and coolness outweigh silly things like fuel economy, dependability, or affordability. If buying a set of forged pistons means eating ramen noodles every meal until payday, so be it. My ‘78 met an untimely, yet predictable, demise in an epic crash before I was seventeen (who gives a 16-year-old kid a 6.6L Firebird? Make good choices Dad), but in the years that followed I had an assortment of Camaros and Firebirds, the last one being a ‘97 Firebird that I bought when I came back stateside from the Army in 1999 – coincidentally the same year I met Melinda. Sadly, when we met, Melinda was driving a little 4-cylinder Eagle Talon, which she’d bought because it was dependable and efficient, but mostly because it was “super cute”.

When we got married, we decided that Melinda would be in charge of the household finances; partly because it’s too complicated for two people trying to balance the shared checkbook, but mostly because, as we’ve established, I would spend all our grocery money on go-fast car parts. We don’t necessarily have to ask each other for “permission” to buy something, but out of respect, we make sure to discuss significant purchases beforehand, especially if it’s something frivolous, expensive, or both. The Firebird was relegated to weekend cruiser status, mainly because I’d tinkered with it enough to make it completely impractical as a daily driver (but it was fast). Melinda’s little car was on its last leg, so she needed something reliable. We made the practical decision to trade in my old Firebird on a shiny new Mitsubishi Eclipse for her to drive. Melinda didn’t even ask what engine it had in it (it was another gutless 4-cylinder), but again she thought it was “super cute”. This marked the first time since I was fifteen years old that I didn’t have a “cool car” sitting in the driveway. I didn’t voice my objection, but I’m sure I carried some resentment over that fact.

Fast forward another decade or so, we’d settled into our marital routine. We both had decent “practical” vehicles and we were more financially secure than we’d been as broke newlyweds. I told myself (but not Melinda) that I’d gone long enough without a cool car. I’d sacrificed for years with boring vehicles – it was time to get something fun and impractical again, I deserved it. Unfortunately, Pontiac no longer existed, so no new Firebirds. I checked out the new Camaros online, but a true car guy like me really deserved more than a base model SS. The supercharged 650hp ZL1 looked adequately impractical, but for that price I might as well just get a Corvette. Huh, Corvettes are pretty nice and very impractical. Plus, I was in my 40’s and I already owned the universally accepted Corvette uniform (jean shorts, Polo shirt, and New Balance sneakers). It was settled – a Corvette was the logical choice.
I brought up the subject to Melinda one evening over dinner. My entire proposal consisted of saying “hey babe, I think I want to buy another sporty car, maybe a Corvette”. Surprisingly, she responded with “okay, as long as we can afford it, I’m open to you getting something”. Now, this is where the perceptions of this conversation differ greatly between Melinda and me. To Melinda, she was acknowledging my desire to buy a new sports car and expressing her openness to further discussion about said purchase, including that we could look at the cost/payments/our finances, shop around/visit some dealerships, maybe test drive a few different models, and then eventually consider making this purchase. Conversely, what I heard was “okay, go buy that Corvette”.

So that’s what I did. I stopped by the Chevy dealership the next day on my lunch break and bought a shiny new Corvette. As I was headed back to work, I sent a thoughtful courtesy text to the wife “Hey Babe – I bought a Corvette!”. The little dots appeared on my phone screen, indicating that a reply was forthcoming. Still blinking. Still blinking. Man, she’s really be typing a lot – maybe she’s really happy for me? When her response finally appeared on my screen, I quickly learned that she was not, in fact, happy for me.

I still have the Corvette and the wife, so she obviously forgave me–eventually. In hindsight, I held resentment for giving up my cool car after we got married, which probably lead to me hearing what I wanted to hear during our much-disputed dinner conversation. But I’d never expressed my emotional connection to having a cool car (or my resentment at having given one up), so she likely viewed the conversation as transactional or logical, not emotional. The resulting conflict caused both of us to feel as though we’d been wronged, which could have easily caused even more resentment if left unresolved. Luckily, I have a very forgiving wife.