I recall a moment in one of my favorite movies where a young man whose self image is shall we say elevated describes himself in three words. 

 

"The whole package."

 

Another of my best loved films has a funny scene where the lawyer criticizes the man with autism for asking that the corn be separated from the limas in his succotash in a cafeteria, but then she orders an omelette with no yolks, extra whites, low fat cheddar, hold the peppers, and grilled onions. 

 

I suppose we all do it. Try to make life a la carte when what we are served is a fixed menu. I want my husband to be handy with car maintenance, but his propensity to messiness I can do without. I welcome the snow, but not the difficult driving conditions. I loved having babies, but wanted to skip the feature about interrupted sleep. 

 

If I am willing to admit it, the whole package that is me has flaws. Yes I can create little wool animals but trying to find somewhere to sit that has no dropped needles is dicey. It is true I get the laundry done, but sometimes the clean clothes lay stranded on top of the dressers.

 

Oh well. Maybe my mess ups and John's can somehow make up for each other. He is quite happy to do the December driving, and I can put away the jumper cables.