Barb seems to be just a little bit worried that she’s driving me crazy, but only a little bit worried. The worry doesn’t stop her, I noticed, from refraining from driving me crazy.

It’s nothing she asks me to do that drives me crazy, and nothing she does. Nothing unusual, anyway. She does the normal, day-to-day things most married people do, one right after the other, as simple as walking. How, you might well ask, does this drive me crazy? Doesn’t, really. Haven’t been bothered by it much at all. She’s so dead sure she’s driving me crazy, though, that, after each one of a zillion instances of normal, utterly ordinary acts, she asks me if she’s driving me crazy. That drives me crazy.