I hope I don’t offend you, but I’ve got to make something clear: I sure would hate to be a woman.

The other day Oprah interviewed a tall, good-looking, athletic quarterback from high school from back in the 80s. I had to admit, she turned out to be a pretty good-looking woman.

No, he wasn’t a woman in high school, but he is now.

Is he, she crazy?

I know I’m going to be in hot water before this is over, but I’m just not seeing why anybody would want to be a woman. You probably agree. But if you don’t, you will by the time I’m finished telling you my little story.

While the amazing blonde and I – along with Rachel, Pretty Eyes and Little Dewey – were on our first ever trip to Branson last week, the amazing blonde took a bad step, literally. We were making our way to the car to go out on Friday night, and she somehow missed the curb. She was holding little Audrey and, as she fell, held onto her as long as she could before letting her go. Thankfully, Pretty Eyes was OK, but the amazing blonde wasn’t as fortunate. Because she wasn’t able to cushion her fall, she ended up with a severely sprained left ankle and a badly bruised left hip.

In other words, she can hardly move.

I hate to admit this – as any man would – but I need you to know that over the last 35 years the amazing blonde has carried me. She truly is amazing. Oh, I do my thing, the writing and teaching and all that. But she does the other 37,000 things that keep the house running smoothly.

But this week – and next, too, if I survive – I’M having to carry her – sometimes literally. At times she is so tired from trying to make it to the bathroom she’ll whine and ask me if I’ll carry her.

And I do, without a word.

Well, at first I made a wisecrack about how I’m glad I have a strong back. But when Rachel, the amazing blonde/part 2, punched me in the back as hard as she could, I knew that was the wrong thing to say. So I’ve quit saying that. Besides, when Rach punched me, I realized my back wasn’t as strong as I thought it was, after all.

But carrying Marilyn to the bathroom isn’t the hard part. The hard part is carrying the rest of the load: the washing dishes, the cooking supper, the going to the store, the sweeping and mopping and washing, the gettin’ this and gettin’ that and doin’ t’other. I’m telling you. It’s downright exhausting. A woman’s work would make a lumberjack’s knees wobbly before noon.

Now, please, don’t think I’m being sexist with that little list. We men may think we do our part around the house and all, but – truth be told – we know that the items mentioned above, along with a couple thousand more, would never get done – or would get done so poorly that the dog would choose to sleep on the porch - if it was left up to us. Come on, men, admit it. You’re just fooling yourself if you don’t.

Better yet. Put your wife on crutches for a week whether she has a bad hip and ankle or not, then see what happens. You’ll be begging for your boss to call you back to work by supper time the first night, the second at the latest.

Which brings me to my point.

It was at the end of the third day of this grueling, nonstop, get-me-this and get-me that journey that I finally crawled into where the amazing blonde was convalescing, blew the hair out of my face, and said,

“Honey, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t want to be a woman.”

Quote, unquote.

She laughed and called and told all her friends what I had said. But I was too tired to stay and chat.

I took off my apron, locked myself in the bathroom, and took a long, hot, bubble bath.