I do love my DH. Truly, I do. But I am directionally challenged, something he has known about me for the thirteen years we've been married. I think it is some sort of test of my devotion to him, as if the past thirteen years haven't been enough, that he still asks me to drive him to the airport.
The very thought causes me to break out in hives.
He has to understand: I have never been in a city where I have driven either from or to the airport where I didn't get horribly lost and/or intimidated by the blur of traffic whipping around in ferocious circles, buzzing the beleaguered travelers as they dragged their luggage across the pedestrian crosswalks trying to figure out, "dammit, which terminal do I go through to get to Gate 16?"
I learned my lesson long ago with my ex-boyfriend (He Who Must Not Be Named) when I optimistically offered to pick him and a friend up from the airport on their way back from a trip. An hour after he arrived and went through baggage claim, he was still sitting on top of his Weekender waiting for me to pull up. Not that I wasn't at the airport. I just couldn't figure out how to get to baggage claim in my car! I was flushed, shaking, and embarrassed after that debacle (the merciless teasing didn't help...which is yet another reason why we split up), and I swore I'd save any future relationships by never driving my loved ones to the airport.
So, I love you, DH, and I'll miss you terribly...and here's the number for Super Shuttle. I'll see you when you get home.