I’ve been saying for years that one of these days I’m going to write this stuff down. I’ve put it off, the same way I keep putting off making that appointment with a personal trainer. When I saw the Patch request for bloggers, I thought, "Okay. Why not?" So here goes.

One of my friends recently asked me how I liked being married to a local politician. The truth is that sometimes I don’t like it at all. I could never be one myself. It would really bother me to make decisions that affect people and their employment. I listen to everyone’s side of the story and end up really seeing everyone’s side. I’ve had to get used to people criticizing my husband and rolling their eyes and making faces when he’s talking; it’s kind of weird to watch local access TV and see others doing what I’ve been doing for the last 33 years.

There are, however, a few things I would never get used to. I’m talking Arnold, John Edwards, and Anthony “I don’t think those were my boxers but I can’t be sure” Weiner. I’m often told I worry both needlessly and excessively, and the events of the last few weeks have given me lots of new material.

Ladies, I don’t know about any of you, but the last thing I want at this point in my life is to discover that there’s a kid out there whose braces, summer camp, driver’s ed and prom dresses are my responsibility. Infidelity is one thing. Finding out I’m suddenly on the hook for a second round of endless teen needs is another. This year was the first since Ronald Reagan’s inauguration that we filed our taxes with no dependents.  The swing set has long been dismantled.  I love my grandchildren, but what I love most about them are their doting and gainfully employed parents.

With the sole purpose of figuring out the ages of any would-be offspring resulting from my spouse’s self-proclaimed wild college years, I went scurrying for a calculator and a calendar. The good news is that even if these “children” existed, they would be in their late 40s and old enough to pay for their own car insurance.

I was expressing my fears to my husband the other day as we sat at the beach. He was solving the New York Times crossword puzzle and commenting on the beauty of late afternoon. Not content to relax, I regaled him with my litany of worries. How could Maria not know? Can their marriage be annulled? Could Arnold be ex-communicated? Who will take care of the poor Edwards children if their father goes to prison? I topped it off with a sheepish request. “Ummm...I’m just wondering. You’d never tweet some young woman while wearing just your underwear, would you?”

He closed the newspaper, sat up straight, looked me in the eye and shook his head. “You know,” he said, “everyone thinks I’m the crazy one in this family.”

NEXT: My disastrous journey into the world of fantasy baseball.