No need to sweat the small stuff

That Monday had been a long time coming. My husband and I had spent those last two years filling out reams of paperwork and writing checks in our quest to get his green card.

It was finally our day to prove to the government that we are, in fact, a real couple. So as we sat for three hours in the loud, crowded waiting room at the Department of Homeland Security, I tried my best to block out the noise, and I practiced answering anticipated questions in my head. I certainly didn't have anything to hide, but I knew I had to tone down my sarcasm when answering the usual questions we get. Like, "What does Steve do?" Standard answer: "Beats me, I'm an English major and never took chemistry."

Or "Why didn't you change your name?" Standard answer: "No land or livestock were exchanged, so I'm still technically my father's property."

At long last, we were led, with no fanfare, back to an interview room. Steve and I are products of the two most stereotypically demure cultures in the Western Hemisphere (he's English, and I'm Southern) so talking to a stranger about our private life and finances was excruciatingly mortifying, but we answered the questions truthfully.

I had brought all sorts of tax records and affidavits as requested by the most recent form Steve had received and which I'd made him double-check the night before and again that morning. But the interviewer asked me for one I didn't have, and I bit down hard, straining to smile at my husband, fully aware that we could prove without a doubt that we were a real couple if I opened my mouth and screeched at him: "I thought you read the stupid form!"

The interviewer made us a follow-up appointment on a Tuesday at 8 a.m., smack in the middle of our long-planned vacation out of town.

When we got into the car, my darling husband started talking 100 mph about the interview and how it went, saying, "If it hadn't been for that form ..."

As sweetly as I could muster, I said, "Honey, I'm tired," code for, "I am really irritated at you right now, so don't talk to me."

"You just close your eyes," he said, code for, "I'm going to shut up now."

When we were nearly home, I heard screeching tires behind us. I turned and saw a black BMW bounce across three lanes, roll over a couple of times, then come to rest off the curb. The SUV that had clipped it cut across traffic and came to a screeching rest beside it on the sidewalk.

Steve tore to a stop on the next side street, then leapt out as I dialed 911, darting across four lanes of traffic to see whether anyone was hurt. The dispatcher picked up as Steve ran back across Wade Avenue and yelled to me, "It's a fight; get back in the car!"

As we raced out of there, I explained as best I could our location and what had happened before ending the call and turning my attention to Steve. Shaken, he said, "I wasn't thinking, I had to make sure nobody was dying and get you out of there."

As I reassured him that he had done the right thing and that I was so incredibly proud of him, I realized that just minutes before, I was iller than I'd ever been at him over a form.

Just a stupid form.