A risky proposition

The lighter side of looking for help

An ad in the local paper caught my husband’s eye. The seller, looking to unload a sport-boat and its associated gear—dual motors, trailer, clear title—had reduced the price to a mere $6,300, or best offer. And to sweeten the deal, the whole shebang came with an automatic wench.

Not only were we unaware such an item still existed in modern society, at least not insofar as to be called that, we were also astounded to see it promoted in all capital letters and so unapologetically. The wench was not pictured in the ad, so it was hard to know what to think about the whole automatic business. Was this the unavoidable sort of wench, the free gift-with-purchase that would show up whether we wanted it or not and undoubtedly end up in the give-away pile? Or was it more of the no assembly required, comes with fully charged batteries, self-starting type that was guaranteed to work upon arrival?

Now, I’m not ashamed to admit that the idea of a second wife has crossed my mind once or twice over the years. Though perhaps a little unrefined, I figured a wench had potential as a starter model. Like having an understudy, or a stunt-double, who could learn my lines and save me from unnecessary crashing and burning. That makes sense, right? Performing artists have had built-in back-up like that for well over a century. Why not me?

Interestingly enough, the automatic wench reminded me of a listing I’d seen some while back for registered Cavalier King Charles Spaniards. Spaniards! With a pedigree! ¡Ay, caramba! I’ll take three! 

At the time, I was homeschooling my young children while also farming my brains out. My other half worked long hours, probably to avoid our household chaos. The idea of adopting a few foreign helpers sounded like just the solution I needed. They could entertain the girls when I was too busy, and I figured my Spanish, all six words of it, would improve eventually.

Alas, as you’ve already guessed, I never followed through on any of these special offers. The truth is, I have a hard time asking for help, let alone paying for it. I’m a rare combination of my parents’ Depression Era frugality and my own do-or-die tenacity, all smothered in a rich gravy of indecision. In layman’s terms, that means I spend a lot of time pulling myself up by my half-cracked bootstraps while wondering if I’d be better off with duct tape and a pair of Hokas. 

Upon reflection, though, an automatic wench was probably a risky proposition. I gather they can overload really easily. If ours ever stopped working, I’d have an even bigger headache to deal with. As for the Spaniards, well I’m sure they were cute, but I think I would have regretted having them, even if I could have afforded them. They’re prone to hip problems and hearing loss, and I read that they’ll chase after anything that moves, and nobody needs more of that nonsense.

I’ll be okay. I have a caring partner who, for more than 30 years, has shown a willingness to field my predictable over-analysis of myself, the world, and everything in it. He only lapses into mansplaining when his fix-this-shit mode can’t take it anymore. I just remind him that soft ears are what really do it for me, and that seems to settle him down. 

~Elizabeth

Photo by Leah Newhouse