... for a week. But that's long enough.

She's spending the week volunteering at a camp for diabetic kids. As the son and brother of diabetics, I can tell you that diabetics aren't exactly invalids, but I'm sure Rachel has earned herself a comfy country home in heaven, just the same.

I certainly hope so, anyway. On my own, I'll probably be allowed to lay a sleeping bag next to a mosquito-infested ditch, at best. I'm hoping a bit of Rachel's goodness will rub off.

I'm also hoping the issue of the afterlife won't come up for a while, but it is always a possibility when my wife is not around to keep me from setting myself on fire.

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To his credit, my friend, Jim, has done his best to fill the void. For a case of beer, he grilled me up a steak Saturday, chicken Sunday.

I normally go hiking with my wife on the weekends, and again Jim tried to fill the void, but it just wasn't the same. Rachel is in better shape than me and hikes far ahead, so I generally get the pleasure of staring at her behind for several hours.

I don't want to stare at Jim's behind.

Fortunately, that was not a problem. Within minutes of hitting the trail, Jim was red-faced, huffing, and puffing. I was somewhat concerned that he was going to keel over, leaving me to perform CPR and mouth-to-mouth. Which, of course, means that he would have died out there.

"I thought you said this was a 'moderate' hike," he groaned.

"It is moderate," I said.

"I hate you. I hate everyone who has ever been nice to you," he said (actually, he didn't say that, but I'm sure he would have if he had been able to breathe).

You might remember a recent column in which I claimed to be "not necessarily dependent on my wife." That is such I lie. I still can't believe I actually wrote it down and expected you to believe it.

Rachel has been gone only a few days and already I have managed to cut myself seven times, hurt my knee in a particularly painful way, and I forgot to eat Friday.

I'm worthless without my wife. I can't even perform simple tasks. Here's an example:

I had two things, count 'em, two things to do Sunday -- buy a newspaper and buy shoelaces.

The newsstand is a five-minute drive from my apartment, but instantly I got "lost," not able to decide which route I wanted to take, then changing my mind mid-route, then having to decide which route I wanted to take to get me back on my original route, and on and on and on and on until I finally reached the newsstand an hour after having left.

I still have not bought the shoelaces.

I realize that there are plenty of people who have it worse than me. The military men and women who help to protect this country regularly have to part with their spouses for much longer than just a week. And they say absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Plus, I can do all the fun stuff that I never get to do when my wife's around. When the cat's away the mouse will play, right? Hey, hey! Get ready for wild and crazy me! Wahoo!

Wait a second. Dang, my knee hurts, and I appear to have caught myself on fire.

This sucks. I want my wife back.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.