My Wife Probably Won't Survive in The Post-Apocalyptic World

I'm beginning to think that my wife isn't cut out to live in the post-apocalyptic world I'm hoping for.

For a start, she's not very tough physically. The rigors of radioactive desert terrain would be too much for her.

Secondly, she's a bit of a germophobe. How can we live in a secret cabin built from the remains of a Boeing 747 if she can't drink out of a glass of water after she's found a cat hair in it?

Thirdly, she really likes showers. She sometimes takes two a day. That's fine now, but when we're living in a Barstow-like environment, I'm going to have to fight mohawked cannibals just to get drinking water. Forget showers.

The most important reason is that she's really, really sweet. According to the B-grade movies I'm basing my vision of the future on, she's almost guaranteed to die in the opening act, providing me with a motive of revenge for the rest of the movie.

I'm sure going to miss her.