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In the interest of marital harmony, let me be clear right from the start: My husband Glenn is no girly-man. During the past few years, he has sustained so many injuries, through accidents that defy the imagination and boggle the mind, that he can no longer straighten half of his fingers and a chiropractor took one look at him and suggested he come in for weekly treatments lasting into infinity.

Take the time we were renovating a bathroom. At 3 a.m., a heavy rain began to fall and Glenn decided to make sure our bathroom was safe from leaks. Seconds later, I heard a thunderous noise and a howl reminiscent of a wolf baying at a full moon. Glenn had forgotten the bathroom’s floorboards had been removed, and he somehow crashed through the plaster ceiling of the room below. He hung from a joist, his head in one level of the house and his legs in another, swaying like a piñata only a malicious kid would want at their birthday party.