I can predict the future--but only when it involves my husband.
Example #1: He asks, "Do you think we should buy a camper?"
"No," I reply. "We've done that several times, and we always end up not using it much. It's so easy to drive anywhere we want to in a car and stay in a motel."
At the same time, I begin watching second-hand stores for decent pots and such, because I know there will soon be a camper in my yard. The request for my opinion was academic; he'd already decided it was time to try the camping life again. To be honest, it doesn't make much difference to me, since he's willing to do all the work of setting up and taking down, but I knew from that initial question what my future held.
Example #2: We're leaving on a camping trip. He says we should take off about
noon, because most campgrounds have mid-afternoon check-in times. What I
say out loud is "Okay," but what my spousal clairvoyance whispers is
"10:00." And I am correct. He's got the whole thing ready to go at 8:00
a.m. We sit around for a couple of hours (me writing Sleuth Sisters #5,
him surfing) and he says, "I think we should go, and I'll buy you lunch on the way."
Not a problem. I am, after all, skilled in that area of ESP, so I knew the real schedule that was hidden in his cute little head.
Example #3: He puts in a garden every spring. I can't help much anymore due to back trouble, so I suggest he should go small: one cherry tomato plant--or two if he must. One squash plant--never more. His reply: "You never know how many are going to make it." He plants six of each. My prescience kicks in: "They're all going to make it, and we'll be inundated with squash and cherry tomatoes." August bears out my prediction. We're freezing stuff we will probably never use and giving cherry tomatoes away to complete strangers if they're too slow to get away.
What's good about a long marriage is that you get used to each other's eccentricities and adapt to them. I'm pretty good at dragging my feet if I really don't want to arrive at an event unbelievably early. (We once got to a preseason baseball game three hours early in order to "get a good parking space." We got so fried sitting in the Florida sun waiting for game time that we left after two innings.)
I'm sure he could list for you many things I do that make him crazy, like answering a question with a question. After forty-plus years, he'll tell you if he asks, "Where do you want to eat lunch?" I'll say, "What do you feel like eating?" I contend I'm being polite. He thinks I'm trying to drive him crazy, camper and all.