My wife and I will celebrate forty years of marriage this coming January, which is a remarkable achievement by any standard, particularly when one considers that neither of us has yet been granted parole. I have also discovered an interesting mathematical fact: I have now spent more years with my wife than I ever spent with my parents.

This establishes, beyond reasonable doubt, that anything presently wrong with me is her fault.

I did not arrive at this conclusion lightly. It required years of observation, careful calculation, and an almost scientific disregard for personal responsibility.

My parents had me for a comparatively brief period, during which they managed to teach me a few things. My wife, on the other hand, has had four decades to work on me, and look what she has accomplished.

If I am stubborn, she has encouraged it. If I am forgetful, she has given me plenty of practice. If I have developed peculiar habits, she has had forty years to correct them and apparently decided they were beyond the reach of modern medicine.

Naturally, I mentioned this discovery to her. I explained that, statistically speaking, she was now responsible for the greater portion of my personality, my shortcomings, and my general condition.

She looked at me for a moment and said, “You were like this before I married you.”

I considered that remark carefully. It is an unfortunate statement, because it suggests she knew what she was getting into.

But I have a counterargument: She has had forty years to fix it, so clearly, the woman has some explaining to do.