Sometimes I mumble. Sometimes there are airplanes roaring overhead or lawn mowers buzzing next door. Sometimes I’m sure they really don’t hear me.

But, when my hubby cups his hand around his ear, cranes his neck and begs, “Pardon? Were you talking to me?” I know it’s the old Selective Ear acting up again.

This S.E. malady reared its ugly head the summer we were married. No sooner would I ask for help with some household chore, and he was out the door with his archery equipment. Although I’d call to him, I suppose he couldn’t hear me with those noisy arrows swishing through the air …