Here’s a word I wish I didn’t know: “barndominium.” This word has been thrust into my vocubulary by my husband. We seem to be playing out a 2010 version of the 1960s sitcom “Green Acres.”

In the modern version, the husband drags the wife over to his computer to show her screen after screen of rural property for sale all over the state. Some of these properties have little houses on them. Some of them have mobile homes, and some have, you guessed it, barndominiums. A barndominium is a barn with an apartment built into it. Let’s just say this is not where I want to spend my golden years.

I have come up with a nice way of saying “Are you out of your mind?” I say, “But what about Zsa Zsa?” This response is also kinder than my previous one: “I’m sure your next wife will be very happy there.” (Side note: I have since learned that it was actually Eva Gabor, not Zsa Zsa, who starred in Green Acres, but I’m sticking with Zsa Zsa because it’s a much funnier name.)

I’m afraid we do not share the same vision of retirement. Bob sees himself endlessly puttering — in the chicken coop, in the garden, among the fruit trees. The gentleman farmer.

I see myself drinking red wine with old friends, writing, taking fun classes. I doubt they have yoga in Hooterville.

I picture myself at 70 in a pink feather boa, chugging chianti with Arnold the Pig.

“Arnold dahling,” I say, “It’s so dull here. I miss Park Avenue.”

Arnold just nods kindly and nuzzles me with his snout.