I hope everyone realizes and appreciates what a risk I’m taking by writing on this topic.

Truth is, I’ve always been a risk-taker. But I’ve always been lucky, too. So, here goes.

My sneezes: Honey says if there is one thing she could change about me, it’s my sneezes. They are explosive. They are loud. They may come staccato like bursts from a Gatling gun. Children huddle behind their mothers. Birds are startled into flight.

“You could sneeze like a normal person if you wanted to,” she says.

“If I tried to hold them in I might rupture something,” I respond.

I can stifle, or at least try to, if I’m at a funeral, say, or in a crowded elevator. A stifled sneeze is painful and, I contend, unhealthful. Better to let it out. A really good sneeze will involve the whole body. The diaphragm snaps like a rubber corset, giving the airways a first-class blowout. The brain releases endorphins and dopamine into the bloodstream, leaving a feeling of well-being. A loud, long sneeze is an unexpected and unapologetic shout to the universe that says, “I am here!”

Toast crumbs: Try as I might, I cannot seem to keep from scattering toast crumbs on the counter and adjacent kitchen floor. When Honey steps on them in her bare feet, it irritates her immensely. Why, she asks in exasperation, can’t I seem to confine them to the tray she helpfully provides in front of the toaster?

Bread cut at an angle: My wife bakes the most delicious fresh bread, which helps explain why I so often get into trouble over toast crumbs. I also get reamed for cutting bread poorly, that is to say, not at right angles to the long axis of the loaf, or, worse, not plumb, so that the slice varies in thickness, top to bottom or side to side. If the grandsons are here, which they often are when there is fresh bread to be had, and the sin of angled slicing is detected, they will either try to cover for me or rat me out.

Boots on the carpet: There is a faint but distinct brownish trail through the living room carpet which Honey attributes to years of my failure to remove my shoes or boots at the door. She wants to rip up the carpet and have laminated flooring installed, but that can’t happen until the ceiling of our dome house, 24 feet up, is painted, and that can’t happen until I repair the drywall, and that can’t happen until I fix the leak around the chimney. There is a reservoir of anger, if not hate, built up from my malfeasance and nonfeasance regarding these issues.

Being late: She hates to be late, and I admit on some few occasions I have caused us to be late to some event, appointment or function. I plead that most such are in the past. I am practically reformed and feel I am being tarred with an old brush. If prompted, I’m sure she could respond with multiple recent examples to prove the point, which is why I’m not going to ask.

Excessive teasing: Let her make one little mistake or a slip of the tongue and my instant reaction is to tease her about it. Too often I overdo it and it rubs her raw. The grandsons have learned to pile on, which makes it worse. Mea culpa. The good thing is, she has learned to turn the tables when I make a slip.

Well, that would seem to be a wrap on all the things my wife hates about me. Not many, is it?

May I counter with some things she loves about me? She loves our companionship, our similarity of outlook on most issues and activities (such as going to yard sales), our agreement on handling financials and family. She loves me doing nice things for her, like building shelves and helping with her many projects. Give this practical girl no cut flowers, but chocolate is never turned down.

What do I love about her? Too many things to name here. And irritations? Nothing important. Let me just say I miss her when she’s not around.

Would she miss my sneezes if I were not around? I really do wonder.