I try to be interested. I really do. I really, really want to be one of those women who can open a toolbox and know what the names of the odd shaped utensils are called. When we were in the midst of our renovation hell, I even deigned to pick up some of them in a valiant show of support for my husband, who was doing all the work. But I realised the other day, that it just isn’t true. I am not a handy person. If something were to go wrong, like a pipe bursting (which actually happened) and my husband wasn’t there (he was, thankfully), the first thing I would pick up would be the telephone. For a plumber. In fact, if I were alone, I would probably build an army of trustworthy handy people to phone just in case something went wrong, just like my single hard-working, liberated feminist mother did when I was growing up.
The biggest sign that my valiant efforts at self-sufficiency are all a poorly acted charade? I hate hardware stores. Especially the big, pukey orange one down the street. There. I said it. I am officially out of the closet. I am bored to death by rows of drywall, piping or wainscotting. I hate the bare concrete walls, the apathetic employees (who have to go through a bizarre pep talk ritual every morning- can anyone say enforced cult membership?) I become a whiny child everytime we have to go to one, which is too often in my books. My legs become heavy, I start walking slowly and I answer all questions with an adolescent-like sneer. Anyone starts talking about drill bits and my eyes glaze over, the same way they do when I start to think about tax returns or investment strategies. I am so bored I can’t focus for even a second.
I realise of course, that having a ceiling in the bathroom is a necessary thing. That the drywall serves the vital purpose of sheilding the hole where the upstairs neighbours could watch us shower from if they were so inclined. I recognize its utility. I just don’t want to have to purchase it. Or put it up. Or deal with the mess afterwards.
Just like taxes. I realise I have to pay them. I get that. I just don’t want to have to figure out the damn tax return forms. Even thinking about it is putting me to sleep right now.