When my husband and I married, we were given lots of unsolicited advice. But the only piece that had any truth came from my 82-year-old grandfather: “Honey child, ain’t nobody can tell you what you’re about to get into.” He was right, and I concluded later, this is a good thing.

Marriage is like driving a car. On our first date, my husband and I went for Mexican food at Armandos. We’d finished our meal and were walking out to the parking lot when Pat asked, “Would you like to drive my car?” I was both surprised and delighted. His was a Porsche Sportster that looked like a silver bullet and an old wash-tub combined. “I would love to drive your car,” I answered.

Minutes later, we were scooting down the freeway. Having driven an old Jeep for years, using a stick shift was familiar to me. I had shifted up to speed, feeling confident and with a returned sense of childhood freedom. It was summer time, the top was down, we were feeling good... enjoying that friendly, first-date type of conversation when suddenly, everything went south.

“Uh, I’d ease up on those gears if I were you,” Pat said. “You oughta move over in this lane,” he pointed. “Take that exit there,” he ordered.

This time I was surprised and not delighted. “Pat,” I said, “Do you always give people so many instructions?”

For awhile there was cold silence. I glanced over at him, staring straight ahead and looking very pensive. “You know,” he said, “I’m afraid I do. Is it too much for you?”

I was so struck with his sincerity and earnestness that my tone softened. “Well to tell you the truth, it is, but I’m happy to give you the wheel back if you want.”

“No, no, no,” he said quickly, “that’s okay.”

Not convinced, I pressed. “I mean you asked me if I wanted to drive, but if you can’t sit over there and let me, I’d really rather you.”

“No really,” he insisted. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m OK.”

Little did I know how foreshadowing that first date would be. We spent most of our three-year courtship and in part, our marriage, just trying to figure out who in the hell was going to drive the car. What Pat and I figured out was this: sometimes he drives, sometimes I drive. The real trick for us was learning when to turn loose of the wheel.

The same wise grandfather gave me another piece of advice soon after I’d received my driver’s license. After pulling out into the passing lane, I suddenly felt scared and began to hesitate. My grandfather said, “Now if you’re gonna pass 'em honey child, pass 'em!” Same goes in marriage, I thought. If you’re gonna give 'em the wheel, by God let 'em drive. Sit in the passenger seat sometimes and enjoy the ride.

If deciding who drives the car was a hill to climb, negotiating where to go became Mount Everest. For example, if Pat wanted to go to London and I to Paris, somehow we’d end up in Nome, Texas, both miserable. Sometimes Pat drove us to places where clearly I did not want to go, or so I thought. Often I wanted to reach over and yank the emergency brake or open my door and just bail. But I’m glad that I didn’t. There’s a lot of truth in the saying, “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”

And sometimes additional passengers come with the car. Step-children. In our case, young teenagers who, on occasion and understandably, want control of the wheel, too. Take the new family out for a little test drive. This is when turning loose of the wheel is not a good idea, and using the horn comes in handy. It required some maneuvering too, but eventually, Pat and I got on board about this one, declaring that there were two designated drivers in our family, and two only.

It’s been almost 23 years since that first date. I’ll turn into a parking lot now and still, Pat tells me where to park. But after many miles moving down the great highway of matrimony, we’ve learned when to swap seats, and we make the exchange more smoothly. At rehearsal dinners, I often like to pass along the wise words of my grandfather. But sometimes I’m compelled to tell this story, raising my glass with one wish for the newlyweds: “Happy Wheeling!”