I realize this is our Home and Garden issue, and as editor I should contribute some meaningful copy. However, it might as well be our quantum physics or Byzantine art edition as far as my knowledge and skill extends.
I really wish I were a handyman, but I am quite aware that I’m a jack-of-no-trades.
For me, there is a law of the universe no one talks about, and it is this: every home project requires at least three trips to the hardware store.
The first trip is fueled by optimism. I stride in like a confident adult who owns tools. I have a list. I’ve measured. Twice. I nod knowingly at things like “drywall anchors” and “matte finish.” I even decline help because of my false bravado and foolish pride. I leave with a cart full of supplies and the intoxicating belief that I will finish my project in time to watch the second game on a Saturday afternoon.
I will not. The second trip happens 15 minutes into the project.
This is when I discover the screws I bought are somehow both too short and too long. The drill bit I “definitely owned” is a myth. The paint color labeled “Soft Linen” is more like “Ugly Banana.” I return to the store, slightly sweaty, carrying a mysterious metal bracket I’m hoping someone can identify. This time I accept help from a teenager named Aiden who knows more than I ever will.
I go home again. Surely, now well prepared. Incorrect.
The third trip is emotional. This is where I buy the thing I was trying to avoid buying. The better anchor. The special wrench. The upgraded faucet. I also stop at McDonalds and purchase a stress snack because I deserve it.
If I’m lucky and the task is simple, by the end of the day, the project is completed (poorly). I’ve spent twice my budget and learned nothing measurable. However, my pride keeps me from reaching out and finding someone to do it right.
I understand a new rug, a bigger picture, or a slight furniture adjustment can hide any imperfections in my well-intentioned efforts.
Unfortunately, when I finally sit down to relax (because I’ve missed the second game), the television is on the HGTV channel.
My already pummeled masculinity takes another hit as I watch back-to-back home renovation shows hosted by women who can install elaborate, perfect crown molding before I can locate the stud finder.
Somewhere between their perfectly executed kitchen demo and a flawless tile backsplash, I begin to feel… unnecessary.
These women walk into a house, glance at a wall, and calmly say things like, “We’ll just knock this out and reframe the load-bearing beam.” Just? JUST? I once “just” tried to hang a curtain rod and ended up inventing six new swear words and a hole that still needs spackling (If I only knew how to do that).
On these shows, these women swing sledgehammers with the confidence of Norse gods. Their ponytails remain perky and dust-free. They discuss grout lines the way sommeliers discuss wine. Meanwhile, I Google phrases like “is drywall supposed to crumble?” and “how serious is hitting a pipe?”
I grew up believing that at some point, manhood would include an innate understanding of lumber. That I would one day nod thoughtfully in a hardware store and say things like, “Ah yes, quarter-inch lag bolts.” Instead, I stand in the fastener aisle like I’ve wandered into a Halloween corn maze.
The most humbling part is these ladies’ casual competence. They don’t argue with the drill. The drill obeys. When I use a drill, it makes a noise that sounds like it’s been shoved into a cat.
And the confidence! They say, “We ran into a little setback,” which translates to, “We discovered a family of raccoons living inside the electrical panel, but we handled it before the commercial break.” If I discovered raccoons in my wall, I would sell the house.
I try to reclaim some dignity by offering commentary from the couch. “Well, I would’ve done so-and so,” I mutter as I clutch the remote control that also nightly challenges my intelligence. An amused voice from the other side of the couch reminds me I once installed a shelf upside down.
There’s also the aesthetic element. These women transform a crumbling disaster into a magazine spread in 42 minutes (including commercials). My attempts at home projects inevitably end with Tylenol, a heating pad, and an internet search for an expert to fix my mess.
Maybe the lesson isn’t that I’ve lost my masculinity. Maybe true strength is admitting that someone else is better at something — and asking them which drill bit I should be using.
So now when I watch these shows, I don’t feel emasculated. I feel inspired. …..Well, maybe slightly threatened.
And if anyone needs me, I’ll be at the hardware store. For the fourth time.
