As she springs toward her second half-century of life, my always-young wife is afraid of but one thing.
No, the answer is not the Kanto super-earthquake, a North Korean missile or even a head full of gray hair. These potential doomsday scenarios she shrugs off -- or, in the case of the hair, shrieks off -- with relative knock-on-wood ease. For there is another fate far more genuine and thus far more wretched.
Here's a hint: From the middle of March our tiny home has been ankle deep in tissue papers.