I will readily admit that my marriage contract has been noticeably slanted since the very beginning.
My wife is smarter than I am. She's more attractive, more compassionate and has more fashion sense.
My wife works harder, she earns more money, and she has much, much better hair. She teaches our kids important things, like math and how to eat with a spoon; I teach them how to make rude sounds with their armpits.
My wife handily beats me in Scrabble, sometimes even when I cheat. She's nicer than I am to old people and kittens, and when something breaks, she's the one in the family who knows how to fix it.
In short, she's superior to me in most every way — which in the long run works great for me, even if it is a little emasculating.
Still, whenever I started to feel completely useless and inferior in the past, I would find solace in my physical superiority. I was bigger, stronger, faster. She needed me to open those tough jars, to move that heavy furniture around the room, to chase down the dog when it escaped.
Now, however, my wife has decided to add physical fitness to her life. In an effort she chronicles on her own blog (www.failureatfitness.com — great, now she's writing better than I am, too) she has started to exercise on a more serious basis. She's taking walks, going to the gym, lifting weights, Zumba-ing. She's talked about running a race — a previously unthinkable task. Soon she'll be climbing a mountain and swimming the English Channel.
Before you know it, opening a jar will no longer be a problem, and I'll have lost my last vestige of usefulness. She'll probably find some kind of stretching regimen that will allow her to reach things on the top shelf, too. Crud.