I suspect the answer is yes. Mrs. Brad disagrees, saying it's not crazy, it's fun.
Frustration is fun? Realizing the directions make no sense is fun? Thinking there's a stud in the wall where there isn't one is fun? Looking for obscure tools for Mrs. Brad is fun?
Mrs. Brad is undisputably in charge of any fix-it jobs around our house. She's an engineer and elite at handyman projects. I'm pretty sure she enjoys it more when something doesn't work, requiring her to be creative.
In other words, she's the opposite of me. That's why she generally (always) does things like installing a new toilet or kitchen sink, changing shower heads or building a Frankenstein-level exercise bike without me. In fact, I'm usually gone when those things happen, which is good for both of us.
However, I was required to help install the new medicine cabinet because it was seven weeks after she had back surgery and Mrs. Brad was under strict orders to not lift heavy objects, twist her back or do anything that might jeopardize her recovery. However, we needed the new medicine cabinet because . . . um . . . she decided we needed one because . . . I don't really remember. Was this one bigger? I think that was the reason.
Anyway, she ordered it, had it delivered, then we went about installing it. I was the muscle; she was the brains. Only one of us was really equipped for our role.
However, I took down the old medicine cabinet (simple! I removed two screws and it came down) and removed the mirrors (simple! I lifted them off the hooks and set them gently on our bed).
Then came the inevitable confusion. The directions were unclear (as always, they involved lines and letters and confusing arrows), which mystified me, but challenged Mrs. Brad.
We installed one existing mirror (following the old saying, "measure twice, something blah blah blah") and went about putting up the new, bigger, better medicine cabinet.
Mrs. Brad explained what we'd do (making me practice how the brackets would fit under the cabinet) and we were rolling. Until what always happens happened.
Attaching the top didn't go as planned. I was on a stool and installed the first bracket for that purpose, but where we thought there was a stud ("we thought" means "Mrs. Brad thought." I was too busy thinking of dumb jokes about the word "stud"), there was just drywall. We inserted anchors for the brackets (she had several in her tool kit), but that didn't work. Mrs. Brad (forbidden to bend over) had me get various tools, including a power drill. Nothing worked. We couldn't secure the top. Would our new medicine cabinet and mirrors come crashing down?
Mrs. Brad decided to take charge, rather than have me follow her directions. I got her a stepladder and she climbed to have a look, then started doing something I didn't understand. But she was on the ladder, bent forward and muscling something in.
I didn't like the idea. I could do it. She was in recovery. She just needed to tell me what to do.
Finally, after about five minutes, I said, "This makes me nervous. Why don't you let me do it?" and she replied with the clearest explanation of my role: "No. This isn't simple."
Oh. So I'm capable of only doing the simple things. I'm a simpleton. I was insulted . . . until I realized it was true. Still, I didn't want her to get hurt. I spotted her, like I learned how to do during gymnastics in middle-school PE class (something useful from eighth grade!). Ultimately, she anchored the medicine cabinet. It was attached.
All that remained was the kind of stuff that even I – the simpleton – could do: Install the shelves, attach mirrors to the sides and put our stuff in there.
We got it done. As Mrs. Brad pointed out, we didn't argue. I told her my theory about the insanity of loving to do home improvement projects. She disagreed.
I'm pretty sure that I'm right, but then again, I'm simple.
Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.
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