I remember as a child my father coming home from work and the following scene unfolding: My father would remove his shoes, grab the newspaper and head to the bathroom with the hopes of finding a few minutes of solitude. However, when my father seemingly reached the Promised Land (an empty bathroom and no kids in sight), my mother would smack him back into reality. “Before you get comfortable, can you take out the garbage?”

If it wasn’t the garbage, then it was driving the kids to soccer or baseball practice, or picking up the dry cleaning. Either way, as I heard him groan, yell, “oh, crap,” and re-zip his fly, he wasn’t pleased.

Now, as an adult, my life has come full circle. I’m now the one searching for a few minutes of peace any way I can get it. The circumstances are slightly different but the outcome is the same.

My wife is a great, supportive woman, but just as my mother did, my wife has a gift. She knows when I’m ready to sit and relax, and then, like a lion that’s found its prey, she strikes. “Can you get me a glass of water?” she says in her thick New York accent.

This wouldn’t be so bad once or twice an evening, however, my wife drinks more water than any human being I have ever seen. I could see being the waterboy for a professional sports team; that might actually be cool. At least I’d get to hang out with some of my heroes. However, when I get water for my wife it’s just a temporary fix for a water junkie. “How long till the next water high?” I ask myself. Usually, before I can finish the thought, I’m refilling her glass.

I must admit though, I have made progress. Several months ago, my wife decided that she needed an office-size water cooler. This is great. I no longer have to fill a water pitcher 10 times a day. Now if I could only figure out a way to have water pumped into her glass continuously, my worries would be over…or maybe not.

I’ve found that my role as waterboy takes different forms in different places. For example, at dinner parties, I become saladboy—able to leap small children and obese women blocking the salad dressing, in a single bound. I even have a cape made out of croutons. Beware, saladboy turns back into a mere mortal upon encountering Kryptonite, or if he forgets the olives.

Saladboy then gives way to chocolateman. Cholcolateman may shoulder the greatest responsibility of all—finding the largest piece of chocolate cake available. If chocolateman fails in his mission, he is likely to hear, “you call that a piece of cake?” In other words, what kind of a man are you? It’s inconsequential that I waited in line and elbowed my way past lesser chocolatemen. It’s the size of the piece that counts (and the vicious cycle continues).

I’m thinking of starting a support group to champion my cause. However, I don’t think anyone would show up. Millions of men around the world would reach the front doors of their homes, and then be summoned back by their wives to take out the trash, open a jar, or retrieve a bowl from the highest shelf in the house.
“Oh well, a guy can dream, can’t he?” I mutter to myself on the way back to the water cooler.