My husband is leaving me.

Mike is going to Alaska next month to visit his oldest and best childhood friend, whose name (believe it or not) is German. A black man named German will be a topic for a later blog, so for now, back to the subject.

German and Mike grew up together. They cussed together, ran women together and have both now settled into staid and traditional lives of men, married with children.

German comes to Florida every couple of years to visit his mother and daughter who live here and to spend some time trying to corrupt my husband.

You see, German is something of a legend. There isn't a cuss word he hasn't said or a woman he hasn't beded. He wears T-shirts and shorts year-round and will blister your ears with the things he says about sex. He is funny and irreverent and my husband loves him.

German also never forgets a birthday. Takes so many pictures I have an album just for his shots. He makes you laugh. He always sends something special at Christmas. In all the years I have known him, I have seen him angry only once.

German has been saving his frequent-flyer miles, and a couple of years ago he began to ask when we were coming for a visit, promising to use his miles to buy the tickets. And though I am very fond of German, I can’t imagine 19 hours on three planes -- one-way -- to get to him. I have that trip saved for when my daughter marries an Eskimo.

Nevertheless, Mike is going.

Mike and I have never been apart for seven days in all the years of our marriage. It will be interesting to see how well we do.

If he isn't with me, will he get lost in one of the many airports he will need to maneuver because he is too proud to ask for directions? I am always the one to insist that he pull over to ask for directions when we are lost.

Should I pin his traveling money to the inside of his shirt so he doesn't lose it like he does his house keys? Will he be lost in the airport in Washington state yelling, " Has anybody seen my wallet?"

And what about those long, lonely nights in the arctic cold? His feet might get frostbite because he can’t stick them over on my side of the bed.

I'm afraid for my man. What will he eat? What will he drink? Will he need me there and I can’t get to him?

OK!! I’ll CUT THE BULL!!

What I really worry about is whether German will finally work his magic. Will he finally, having my man alone for a week, succeed in turning him into the cussing, skirt-chasing man my husband always wanted to be?

Will they ride moose to the Alaska tavern and stay out all night cussing and chasing Eskimo women around the little igloos? Get drunk and fall into a hole trying to ice fish?

What if he decides he likes Alaska and the single life? He can sell furs, build himself a little ice hut and forget about me. People from Alaska have been known to begin to think they are MAVERICKS!

So I was tempted to throw a fit. To keep him here -- safe with me. So I can warm his feet and watch his wallet.

In the end, I have decided I'm a better woman than that. I will turn my husband over to German and allow him to decide for himself where his line of corruption ends. He can pretend, for a minute, that he is young again, with options. I want my man to have this time to move about the world without me.

I want to see who comes home to me after 7 days.

D. Barbara McWhite grew up in York County and lives in Orange Park, Fla., with her husband and cat.

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