When I was a young man, I considered my ailment a curse.  In one instance it

proved to be a hidden blessing.  After twenty years of a loveless and boring marriage my wife finally filed for a divorce.  Although we had both acknowledged our union had been a mistake, I never doubted it was my chronic malady that finally ended the charade.  There was no need for Melba to admit she could no longer tolerate my restless and sleepless nights; her radiant beaming face expressed her feelings all too well.  She made no monetary demands other that the pink slip to our Cadillac Seville and I happily consented to her request  I always wanted to own a foreign automobile and had my eye on a classy BMW.

             After my failed marriage I spent the next two years anticipating my retirement from the U.S. Postal Service.  I had been delivering mail up and down the byways in New Orleans since turning twenty-seven and before meeting Melba.  When the day finally arrived, I was more that ready to end thirty years of thankless servitude and could barely contain my eagerness to begin a new phase in my life.  I quickly squashed the guilt that surfaced when I thought about the unwise decision Melba had made to refuse a monetary settlement at the time of our divorce.  Regrets behind me, I prepared to move on and enjoy the future which I envisioned flowing before me,

an unbroken stream of uncharted possibilities.  A clean slate awaited my first mark.