Well, interestingly enough, I was Party 1 in the conversation below, and Hubba-hubba was the unwilling giver-upper of the bougainvilla.
I like to think of myself as a realist.
Hubba-hubba would label me a negativist. A thousand points to me if I just coined a new word. I'm too lazy to Google it right now, so a grand it is!
I tend to always see the down side of things, I suppose. I can, for short periods, get caught up in a nice gauzy fantasy of how things should be, and then it all comes crashing down. Usually on my head and in a painful manner.
It seems to be genetically inherited, my mother is exactly the same way, but much worse. She has a completely maddening way of arriving at her negatives in a totally roundabout, inductive manner. At least my pessimism follows a fairly logical path. You may not agree with my path, but you can see it. My mom's path is more like the hedge maze in Harry Potter, replete with things ready to whomp you at any moment.
My dear Hubba-hubba, on the other hand, is a positivist. Aha! I'm fairly certain I now have two thousand points, thank you very much.
He makes a valiant attempt to see the bright side of everything, even the most bleak-looking of circumstances. He just feels better searching for the silver lining. It's almost as if he would go a little nuts if he couldn't find something redeeming about a situation. Although I do have to say, it isn't with a Pollyanna attitude. I don't think I could have married a man with rose-colored glasses on all the time. How annoying would that be? Not to mention highly unfashionable.
But on the whole, I think we balance each other out in a good way. Most of the time, we somehow usually manage to merge our perspectives close to the middle.
Except for that bougainvilla.