Some time ago, the Saturday Evening Post ran a humorous article that traced the tendency for marriage partners to drift from a height of bliss into the humdrum of routine attitudes. Called “The Seven Ages of the Married Cold,” the article likens the state of the marriage to the reaction of a husband to his wife’s colds during seven years of marriage.

The first year: “Sugar dumpling, I’m worried about my baby girl. You’ve got a bad sniffle and there’s no telling about these things with all this strep around. I’m putting you in the hospital this afternoon for a general checkup and a good rest. I know the food’s lousy, but I’ll bring your meals in from Rossini’s. I’ve already got it arranged with the floor superintendent.”

The second year: “Listen darling, I don’t like the sound of that cough and I’ve called Doc Miller to rush over here. Now you go to bed like a good girl, please? Just for Papa.”

The third year: “Maybe you’d better lie down, honey; nothing like a little rest when you feel punk. I’ll bring you something to eat. Have we got any soup?”

The fourth year: “Look, dear, be sensible. After you feed the kids and get the dishes washed, you’d better hit the sack.”

The fifth year: “Why don’t you get yourself a couple of aspirin?”

The sixth year: “If you’d just gargle or something, instead of sitting around barking like a seal!”

The seventh year: “For Pete’s sake, stop sneezing! Whatcha trying to do, gimme pneumonia?”