To Be a Rock and Not to Roll

Pearl, in that odd, third-person way she has, would like to announce that she is moving home, after an 11-month "on the lam" kinda situation.  She is happy, anxious, and a trifle overwhelmed.  Please enjoy this re-post from 2010, whilst she packs up her books, wraps up her cords, and runs down the third-floor steps just one more time...
My husband is a rock.
Not an actual rock. True, he rolls when pushed and sinks in the bathtub, but he is not an actual rock.
Willie is a figurative rock.
Willie comes from a long line of people known not only for their incredible calf muscles (we have a long-standing agreement that, should we ever go down in an airplane over the Andes, we will eat them) and an affinity for all lagers, ales, pilsners, and beers in general but from a group not known for their imaginations.
Willie lives in a world of absolutes, of exact measurements.
You can picture how much he enjoys cruise control.
“What I do, see,” he explains to me, “is that when the speed limit says 65? I set it for 67.” He grins – and did he just wink at me? Willie’s not a winker – and I do love a good winker – but the twinkle in his eye belies just such a gesture.
I nod and smile while wondering if I will have time at the next light to leap out of the car. Because while myself a lover of minutiae, I have periods of limited patience for unswerving dedication to patterns.
Willie can be counted on to follow the same route, go the same direction, go to the same restaurants.
Willie can be counted on to go two miles over the speed limit.
It’s not the speed we’re traveling at, of course, that gets on my nerves, but the level of certainty I have that any time he is driving the car he is doing just that.
And it occurs to me, briefly, that I may figure in there somewhere.
Still, I can’t help but tweak him sometimes.
“Don’t forget I’m meeting Pat to go consignment shopping tomorrow,” I say, just before going to bed. “We’re meeting at Cecil’s at 10:00.”
Willie frowns. He does not remember hearing this before. It’s not unusual for us to have coffee around 10:00 on a weekend, and this last-minute kind of information changes everything. “No coffee,” he says. “Well I suppose I can go to SA for coffee, just buy a cup… Or I can just make it for myself.” He pauses. “I could just make myself a whole pot,” he muses. He frowns in thought, stands, walks out of the room only to return just as quickly.
“I’ll make a whole pot for myself,” he says. “No point in changing anything.”
The start of the morning has been decided. He looks relieved.
And the rock remains unrolled.