The Art of Compromise

Right. So I've known my husband, the Helper Monkey, for nearly 17 years now. We've been married for 15. And every once in a while, I learn something completely shocking about him. Sometimes it leads to snort-drooling laughter.

 

I decided to make pasta for dinner tonight, since I forgot to make up a shopping list for Helper Monkey to get the ingredients for @Fizzygrrl's crock pot curry recipe. This sort of mental lapse is typical. We eat a lot of pasta as a result.

So, I ask the Monkey and Lulu what kind of sauce they want. I have two jars, one regular marinara type sauce, and one of vodka sauce. Vodka sauce is one of my favorites, by the way, so I consider it a treat whenever I make it. I was personally leaning toward it, and had convinced Lulu it was the option to choose. Helper Monkey did not agree.

For the last seventeen years, I've made vodka sauce countless times. I knew it wasn't his favorite, but he always ate it with minimal grumbling. I don't know why tonight was any different, but The Truth has finally come out. Turns out, Helper Monkey equates vodka sauce with vomit. Lulu promptly renamed it Vomit Sauce, and hilarity ensued.

I laughed at his response, but then realized he was completely serious. This made me laugh harder. I was stomping around the living room with the reviled sauce, wondering how anyone could repeatedly eat something that they equated with puke. I have no idea why I found this so entertaining, but I was literally floored. I fell to my knees, laughing so hard I was drooling, all the while berating the Monkey for keeping his vitriolic hatred a secret so long. The mind boggles. Truly, if someone served me something I didn't like once, I'd probably eat it and be polite. I might mention that it wasn't exactly to my taste if they suggested they make it again. If they tried to foist such horror on me a third time, I'd put my foot down. There is no way in hell I'd repeatedly eat something I detested for seventeen years without opening my fat yap and screaming. No. Way. In. Hell.

The Monkey knows I like it, so he never said anything before now. O_o

Hello, people?! Compromise isn't about torturing yourself to make someone else happy. It's about having your needs met while also meeting the needs of others. Sure, I eat foods that aren't my favorite, but I do not eat foods I hate. I feel like I should bake the Monkey a cake. He's apparently suffered greatly in my culinary equivalent of Guantanamo. I'm pretty sure he likes chocolate cake, but I think I'll ask first, just to make sure...

I'll say one thing for sure, I am now eternally convinced of the Monkey's love. He suffered in silence all this time for me. Granted, I'd rather he'd have told me, but shoot. I can't be mad about it. He did it for love. :D

 

How far would you go to keep your dearest love happy? Would any of y'all really go this far? What's the nuttiest thing you've ever done for love? Or, if you're one of my writerly friends, what have you made your characters do for love? I'd love to know.