If there is any doubt at all that science has lost its status as one of the great institutions of our great country, one need only look at the goings-on in a typical American household.

Like mine.

Over the past few years I’ve developed an interest in genetics. I’m not talking about the genetics practiced by online companies, where you send them a sample of cheek scrapings and they tell you if you’re Native American enough to avoid paying cigarette taxes.

No, this is a genuine interest in the science behind my genetic makeup that my wife has not only refused to support, she has gone out of her way to downplay.

Only a few years ago such behavior would be written up in the New York Times as a slap in the face to great scientists like Charles Darwin and Gregor Mendel. Today, it’s merely a slap in the face to me although, as my wife pointed out, slapping them in the face would be a waste of her time.

As an example of this worldwide scientific degradation, the other day I mentioned to my wife that I found a lump in my armpit.

“I sure hope I got my mother’s cancer genes,” I said.

“You’re worrying over nothing.”

“Really? My father died from colon cancer but my mother died of natural causes.”

“Yes, and cancer doesn’t itch.”

I saw myself slurping up chemotherapy drugs while my wife clung to the hope that I was the victim of non-toxic insects.

“Why don’t you get your head out of your armpit and take out the garbage?” she said.

“I need to lie down on the couch,” citing what my mother called my father’s “allergy to housework.”

“I think I got his genes.”

The part of my wife’s response that’s printable went something like, “Ha ha ha ha ha.”

“Good grief, I hope I didn’t inherit his longevity genes,” I said. My father died at seventy-six. My mother made it past ninety.

“No use in worrying about it now.”

“I’m worrying for the both of us. Don’t you want me at your side for decades to come?”

Say what you want, but I’m a firm believer that silence gives consent.

“Where is all this coming from?” my wife finally said.

I pointed out that we teach our newborns to be interested in genetics from day one. After grasping at straws to find something nice to say about a wrinkled, dour-looking, bald-headed lump of 24,000 genes we usually settle on something safe like, “Oh, you have your mother’s eyes and your father’s smile and your grandma’s teeth and … ”

“… your grandfather’s money,” she said.

The last time I gritted my teeth that hard, in a vain attempt to control my mother’s temper, I cracked a rear molar. “In fact, I did inherit money from my grandfather.”

“As I recall that was a Savings Bond he gave you at your bar mitzvah. You just forgot to cash it in.”

“That’s not the way I remember it.”

“You don’t remember a lot of things.”

“Nonsense. If I were forgetful I’d remember it.”

One thing I’ve learned is that if my wife doesn’t laugh at the little jokes I drop in our conversations I must be right.

“It’s not your fault, honey. I’m sure one of your relatives had senile genes,” she said.

“Aunts, uncles, cousins … they were sharp as tacks to the end of their lives.”

“Well, how about the milkman? Did he ever forget to make a delivery?”

“What’s he got do do with this?”

“Didn’t your father take long business trips?”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Those genes must have come from somewhere.”

I extricated the plastic liner from the kitchen garbage can. Maybe science is overrated after all.