My Wife Needs a New Manservant

My wife needs a new manservant. At least that’s what she said the other evening as I struggled to open a jar of previously unenjoyed pickles. You see, my aged fingers are not as tactiley proficient as they were when I was 20-ish. Other parts of me are not working as well as they used to either.

Eyes that could once see a state trooper’s cruiser at 500 yards now struggle to notice long, white hairs protruding from my auditory cavities. A nose that could easily tell the difference between Mother’s homemade spaghetti sauce and Chef Boyardee Beefaroni can no longer figure out if I’m burning my English muffin.

As for my lovely wife, it has become apparent to me that my value to her lies in the combination of my muscular wherewithal and monetary adequacy. And since the latter has proved less-than-adequate for some time now, my only means of maintaining grace has been opening jars. Thus, the new manservant declaration of which I write.

What Will Become of Me

I swear I am not making up the manservant part. She really said that to me. So now I am forced to wonder if 36 years of wedded bliss has been blissful just because I have had strong hands. And if so, what is to become of me now?

The current trajectory of my married life could have been easily predicted had I been paying attention. When we first married, I was in construction. I was a bull of a man who wrangled drywall for a living. Boo-ya! When the drywall industry no longer had need of me, I went into truck driving and delivery. More manly work that insured my hands remained strong.

The rest of my upper body did okay too, I might add. I was ripped. My abs had names. My pecs could reasonably be referred to as guns. Life was good and I was needed by my woman. Then it happened.

I took a desk job.

That did it. I began the long and disastrous decline into softness. ‘Spare tire’ took on a new meaning and the Pillsbury Doughboy stopped looking pudgy. I learned to reason away a tighter waistband and steadily increasing heartburn. And even through it all, pickle jars were still no match for my manly hands. But now, all appears lost.

Help Wanted, Inquire Within

I suppose it’s only a matter of time before an ad goes up online. My wife will start advertising for a new manservant to accompany her in the kitchen, take the trash to the curb, move furniture, and powerwash the house. I will be relegated to the menial position of filling the dishwasher.

My only hope of escaping my fate is the collective intelligence of today’s twenty-something American males. I’m counting on them not knowing what a manservant is, thereby encouraging them to skip the previously mentioned job posting in favor of something more gentile, like internet influencer or literally anything that doesn’t require breaking a sweat.

If the online thing doesn’t work out, maybe she’ll post a sign in the front window, a sign that says: Help Wanted, Inquire Within. I’ll bet that 74 year-old guy who mows all the yards within viewing distance of our home – all but mine, of course – will apply. After all, manservant is good work if you can get it. I know. I’ve been doing it for more than three decades.

Anyway, if you see me on the unemployment line in the near future, you’ll know why. I have been downsized by age and a much younger and more virile replacement. I suppose it happens to the best of us. I just wasn’t ready for it to happen to me.