This week — February 20th on USA, 9:00 p.m. Eastern and Pacific — is the Season 7 finale of Monk, the show about the brilliant but psychiatrically challenged former San Francisco police detective, Adrian Monk. In the consistently capable hands of Tony Shalhoub, Monk is alternately hysterical, irritating, and pitiable — three of my favorite personality traits. With his reliable and long-suffering assistant, Natalie Teeger (Traylor Howard), at his side, Monk solves cases that would reduce any other detective to tears. As he says, “It’s a blessing...and a curse.”

Of course, Monk cries, but not because he can’t figure out who the bad guy is. He cries for other reasons. The most important one is the death of his wife, Trudy. She was murdered by a car bomb years ago, but Adrian still loves her as much as he did the day they were wed. One of the running story-lines in the series is his effort to track down her killer.

I confess I wasn’t one of the original Monk fans. Frankly, I just didn’t think a character could be created to match my ideal of, as the kids say, a neurotic hot mess. I had no doubt Shalhoub would create someone worth watching. Think back, for example, to his terrific turn as taciturn (yes, I’ll say it — I think these rhyme for a reason) Chef Primo in Big Night. Nevertheless, my standards for neuroses are high. Look, I have few skills. I hold on tight to what I got.

But then, a little more than a year ago, I happened upon a Monk marathon. Soon enough, I was hooked. He had me at the hand-wipe. Here was a world of cleanliness and order, a world where the very idea of being around people feels like being washed with sandpaper after having suffered third-degree burns over 90% of your body. At last! My love has come along.

At first, Adrian Monk could do no wrong in my book. For him, life was a series of agonies to be endured until one day it would just be done with you. If any hope existed for this man, it was that life would eventually end. If that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right. Even if I didn’t share all his phobias (I love milk, and I’m not going to apologize), I could appreciate the reasoning behind them. And anyway, even if there weren’t any reasons, I was in love.

He’s still the same guy today, but things are a little different. You know how it is. The glow of first love fades a little, and then you start to see the crow’s feet. It started with an episode in which he walked into his apartment and didn’t immediately wash his hands. Then I noticed he took off his shoes and — oh my gawd, my gag reflex just kicked in — touched the bottom. Only sick slobs do that — sit down, put the palm of a hand under the shoe at the heel, and then pull. It must’ve been love, but it’s over now. That’s how shocking it was. I felt hurt, betrayed. All of it. As Monk says, “I could be wrong. But I’m not.” How could he do that to me?

But, you know, if you’re in a relationship, you’re in it for the long haul. I’m not leaving him. I may need to send along a revised hygiene list, but at least Adrian Monk is about 500 times more sterile than most people I know. That’s gotta count for something. You can’t just cut and run at the first sign of trouble. So, when Season 8 begins, I’ll be there. My supply of wipes is limitless.