I consider myself a smart person, so I am surprised when I learn that there are things almost everybody knows but me.
For example, I found out that I had mispronounced “cacophony” for years, and that thing you wear around your neck with an ID card is called a lanyard, and men don’t have a “prostrate” gland. Who knew? Everybody. But me.
Just last week, I learned that DIY meant “do it yourself.” Sixty-six years old and I never knew that. At first I felt bad, but I consoled myself with the thought that particle physicists, whale hunters and deconstructionists of 19th-century Scandinavian novels know lots of things that I don’t know.
I am most definitely not of the DIY tribe. It is not my fault. Although I have not had my genome mapped, I am sure I do not have the genetic strand for home improvement. When I was a lad, my handyman dad tried to engage me in his projects. No sale. I much preferred reading — or even having an enema. Thank God my younger brother became a boon companion to my dad on his projects. As an adult, my dad bought me tools, but advised me they were for his use only. What is the point of multiple wrenches and screwdrivers? Like bowling, hammering and sawing are way harder than they look.
When Marsha and I were younger, she thought it would somehow be romantic (another gene I am missing) to work on projects together, i.e. until we wallpapered. The combination of being forced into stress positions banned by the Geneva Conventions putting the messy paper on 10-foot walls, and a stupid quest for Sistine Chapel-like perfection, caused something to snap.
In mock fashion, I tried to jam the paper down her throat. Or at least I told her afterwards it was in mock fashion when I apologized. We never wallpapered again. Mission accomplished.
Even the simplest of projects have eluded me. Once I tried to replace a light bulb. Broke it off in the socket. Did the potato trick to remove the broken bulb. Potato got stuck. Turned off power to avoid certain electrocution. Called the electrician when the power didn’t come back on.
I tried to help my oldest son Chris build his car for the Mann School Pinewood Derby. Our car was the only one that didn’t make it down. Even gravity couldn’t help us. The other dads were consoling, but their pitying looks lingered with me for a long time. The new Jordans I bought Chris eased his pain. I think he loves me.
So I say NDIY. Never Do It Yourself.
Just remember: There is no such thing as a small project; power tools can kill; and flush toilets are not essential.
