Last Sunday my husband honored a long standing promise; notwithstanding, it required a small psychological push. The day before we had a cookout at his golf buddy’s home which turned into a talk show. The Wives complained about all the home improvement that needed to be done around the house, but never materialized. The Husbands banded together and gave excuses for all the delays. At the end, we simply told them we were going to hire a handy man.
My husband is a very special man, and he is smart as a fox, but disorganized and messy like a toddler. If I ask him to help me move furniture or rearrange something around the house, he rolls his eyes like a teenager. However, when he sets his mind to doing something and decides to start a project, no matter how much sweat flows–or even blood–he finishes it!
When we got home that night, he went online and researched a ceiling rack for the garage to store the plastic bins and other knick-knacks that were occupying the floor. For months I had been nagging about how difficult it was for me to reach things in the back of the garage and how I had to jump obstacles as if I were at a ninja challenge course.
To give you an idea of what I mean, our garage has been the Bermuda Triangle since we moved two years ago. Between my son’s toys and my husband’s work, boxing, and golfing stuff, there wasn’t a free inch. The curious thing is that as OCD as I am, as long as I could park my car, I couldn’t care less if we looked like hoarders to the neighbors.
So Sunday morning, we drove to the hardware store and picked up the rack and headed home. We unpacked the truck and set to work as the humidity kept rising, and regardless of the huge fan at our disposal, the darn garage felt like hell. My husband measured the space looking for the studs, and we marked the ceiling, prepping for drilling.
Everything was ready to go, but as soon as he drilled the first hole, it went through drywall. So, as if he had a machine gun in his hands, he drilled more holes until he found the studs. Then, while trying to screw the rack onto the frame, the drill got stuck. Therefore, he had to tighten the screws manually, but again one of them got stuck and broke in half, giving up to my husband’s herculean strength.
At that point, I was soaked in sweat and my back and feet were throbbing. I even told him to return everything. However, in situations like these, my hubby’s determination shines through. “We are getting this done,” he said with conviction and pride. There was nothing that could stop him from showing me and the world that the endless hours watching the DIY Network had paid off.
He changed his shirt, ate a sandwich to refuel his body and dignity, and drove to the hardware store to get a new ratchet. A couple of hours later, the rack was hanging beautifully from the ceiling. We stored all the things that blocked the path and realized how much more new space we had.
I have to admit; my husband never ceases to amaze me. I know that the “male” wiring provides men with that special gene to do home improvement work, but because he doesn’t like it, sometimes I think he simply can’t do it. My doubts were the motivation that made him complete this project and his competitiveness became my best ally. We’ll see what else can I get out of my handy man in the future.
Thanks for reading and sharing.
PS: I have forgotten to give an update on the fish. After two months, the three silver ones are still alive. The snail died last week.
This column was sponsored by La’Rae Hendrix, Rodan+Fields Independent Consultant. Redefining the future of skincare. (904) 770-5278