My mother once told me that people rarely change, even for their spouses. She warned me that I had to look carefully at what I was getting before marriage. I dutifully waited four years between the time I decided I�d marry my husband and the time we got married. (Okay, I confess. I waited that long because we were fighting over whether we were serious. Eventually, I won by winning and he won by losing.) Still, I didn�t know he was a stamp collector.

I knew about the model trains. I knew about the coins he sometimes collected. I knew the man had the bad habit of picking up pamphlets from wherever he went. I even had a hint of his love of three-ring binders. But I missed the stamp thing. It was dormant.

Well, he�s out of remission now�with a vengeance. I�ve lost my dining room table under piles and piles of stamp magazines, stamps, tongs, albums, and other hobby material. I have stamps all over the house but sometimes lack one I can use for postage. I endure his disappointed look when I open the potentially exciting mail as I go into the house and don�t wait to use the letter opener that keeps the envelopes in perfect collectible condition. I stay home alone with the children while he runs around with older men, plotting stamp shows.

The worse thing about this apparently chronic disease is that it may be contagious. My children enter exhibits in stamp shows. I find myself learning the lingo against my will. I can tell you what a perfin is, what a CTO is, and why cacheted first day covers are not a good thing to use in an exhibit.

If I ever really start collecting stamps, I�ll have to move to the Netherlands. I believe they have legalized euthanasia.

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