When you have been married twenty years or more, you begin to have some idea what you meant when you said �for better, for worse.� It�s easy to say the words when you really have no idea what the worse can be. Heck, back in the early days you don�t even know what the �little, petty worse� will be let alone the �big, major worse.� But Mr. Philately no longer has any illusions about what the �little, petty worse� might encompass�and he still loves me anyway.

Today, from his perspective, or at least it would be from mine if I were he, has been filled with the �little, petty worse.� Take early (REALLY early) this morning, for example. I think, although I�m not sure, that he would have preferred not to share a bed with me. I am quite certain that he would have preferred not to be awakened at 4:00 a.m. or so this morning by the apparently blood-curdling scream I gave out when the grey-haired guy in the fedora with the knife tried to corner me in my dream. Poor man. He�s lived with me long enough to know that if I have a nightmare one night, I�m likely to have one the next few nights. Then they disappear as mysteriously as they come. Well, here�s hoping, for his sake, that I wake whimpering tonight instead.

Then there was the matter of the car keys. Mr. Philately was supposed to go to a stamp club meeting this evening. He was supposed to go directly from his office because that particular meeting is across town and closer to his office than to the house. But instead he came home to bail me out. You see, I had decided earlier to take the Windex and clean the windshield of the Camry very well. All those squished bugs from the drive to take Kat to college were just smearing across the window no matter how much washer fluid I used. Of course, after I cleaned the outside, the inside looked smeary. So I got into the car and wiped down the window. I should have changed pants but I didn�t. Somehow, the keys fell out of my pocket without my noticing and the next thing I knew I was staring at my keys through the window on the locked door of my car�and Kat�s keys were not even around to help.

So, I called Mr. Philately because Day supposedly had a meeting at the high school that she was to go to. (As it turned out, she did not have a meeting but I did not know that until it was too late.) Sweet man that he is, he gave up his beloved stamp club to rescue a damsel (or at least a dame) in distress. But once again, I was not exactly an asset. I was distressed, although he did not seem to be.

He claims that none of this stuff was all that much�and I don�t even think he�s being smarmy this time. He doesn�t seem to think all this inconvenience is a big deal. Which, of course, gives rise to a depressing thought. You don�t think he believes that all this is �for better,� do you?

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