This time of year, more than any other, brings a certain sameness.

My husband works in politics, and as each election cycle reaches its frenetic conclusion, I brace myself for what’s coming. Every year, there is a very predictable pattern. In the months leading up to the Tuesday following the first Monday in November, he is going full-throttle. It’s hard to describe political life to those who don’t live it, but I think the most relatable comparison I’ve come up with is that it’s akin to tax season for an accountant, but with a lot more swear words. The week after the election is consumed with wrap-up work. That is followed by an all-too-brief period in which he sort of crashes.

Then, one day, he wakes up and looks around, suddenly realizing he has an abundance of free time on his hands. Organizing is like oxygen to him. He can’t breathe without it. So he starts looking around the house to see what needs to be done. Light bulbs get changed. Little repairs get made. All of this sounds great, right? No. It’s awful. It’s awful because I know what’s next…large-scale organization of the house and its occupants. He sends me emails and texts about doing what he calls a “walk-through” of the house. It is exactly what it sounds like. We walk through the house from top to bottom (damn you, finished basement and loft space), and review “what needs done.” Never does my husband’s total lack of acquaintance with the infinitive “to be” aggravate me more than in the month of November.

I am a stacker. A piler of papers. I make little hills of stuff I need to put away…eventually. This habit of mine drives my husband bat-shit crazy. During the height of the election cycle, I’m exhausted from working full-time and essentially flying solo with the human child and the unruly fur-children, but at least no one is asking me “What’s the deal with this stuff on top of the dresser?” Or on the table, on The Thing, in the entry, etc. By mid-November, he’s not only asking me what the deal is, but he expects me to actually do something about it and he’s really kind of a nag about the whole thing. In my head – and sometimes not so much in my head as out of my mouth – I’m like, “Oh, my God, leave me the hell alone!” I will do almost anything to avoid a walk-through. I put him off with various excuses, but resistance is futile. He is nothing if not tenacious.

This period of time coincides with open enrollment at my work. I will confess to lingering on the “Legal Services” option, wondering if this is the year the walk-through finally drives me to seek legal counsel in the form of a divorce attorney.

But just when I think I can’t take any more, the phase passes. And when it’s over, I survey the house. I will admit this to you, but never, ever to him: it really does look better. We’ve identified repairs and projects that need to be done in the coming year. I hate it while it’s happening, but shit gets done.

He then moves on to the next phase, which is comprised entirely of movies. He spends pretty much the whole month of December at the movie theater. After we had our son and formed some fledgling friendships with other parents we met through daycare, I received a few carefully-worded messages from people concerned that perhaps something had happened with my husband’s job, because they noticed on Facebook he was checking into the local movie theater during the daytime with considerable frequency. I always breathe a tiny sigh of relief when the movie phase starts, because it means the end of the walk-through phase is near.

The other thing that happens this time of year is our wedding anniversary. At first, it seemed really stupid that we scheduled our wedding for three weeks after Election Day. Now, I kind of like it. By the time our anniversary rolls around, the dust has settled enough for me to take stock of the situation, and feel good that we made it through another cycle and another year.

Our first trip to Europe was an anniversary trip. London, Paris, Barcelona, Andorra. I had visions of us strolling hand-in-hand through historic avenues, gazing upward and taking in the wonder of the architecture of the Old World. I was genuinely bewildered when that wasn’t at all what happened.

Things came to a head on our first day in Barcelona. We set out on foot on the cobblestone streets. I was giddy. He was confused.

Husband: “What are we doing?”
Me: “We’re walking.”
Husband: “Right, but what are we doing?”
Me: “We’re walking.”
Husband: “But why?”
Me: “What do you mean, why?”
Husband: “Where are we going? What is our destination?”
Me: “I don’t have a specific destination.”
Husband: “What is the point of walking without a destination?”
Me. “…”

In this moment, the fundamental difference between the two of us hit me like a ton of bricks. It seems I’d completely forgotten who my traveling companion actually was: “It’s not a meeting without an agenda.” “Some is not a number, soon is not a time.” This man does not meander. We may have been in a different setting, but we were still the same people.

We’d bickered our way through two of the world’s great cities already. Neither of us wanted to bicker our way through Barcelona as well. So we took it as an opportunity to learn an important lesson in managing expectations. The next day, we agreed he would stay at the hotel and do whatever he felt like doing while I went out and wandered to my heart’s content. Fortunately, I am happy in my own company and have no qualms about going out on my own. I had a lovely little excursion. In the afternoon, at the agreed-upon time, we met at a museum we both wanted to visit.  On that trip, the lesson learned was the importance of accepting differences as just that – differences, not faults or flaws – and to find common ground.

I’ve applied that lesson many, many times in the years since that trip, in a multitude of situations, in almost all of my close relationships.

We have to know when to recognize and honor our differences – as in the case of Barcelona – and when to challenge them – as in the case of the walk-through. I hate the walk-through, but that side of my husband’s personality challenges my tendency toward complacency. It’s uncomfortable and I chafe every damn time, but it’s good for me, just as it’s good for each of us to walk our own path a bit before coming back together.

Note: There was much discussion and back-and-forthing about pluralizing “walk-through.” “Walk-throughs” sounds better in my head than “walks-through” but I finally had to concede that the “mothers-in-law” and “attorneys general” rule applied here. Stupid grammar.