HoneyDo
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Growing up in the 1940s, I learned that a wife’s role was to be pleasant, and unassertive, and husbands had the final word in, pretty much, everything. If my parents had disagreements, they were careful not to let us know. Since I had never seen conflict between my parents I had no idea how to deal with it in my marriage. When my husband and I had our first disagreement about dust he spotted on top of the refrigerator (I hadn’t realized I was supposed to clean areas I couldn’t see), I thought that meant we were headed for divorce. Consequently, I did everything possible to maintain peace.

This wasn’t always easy; especially when something needed repair. He had no interest and even less aptitude when it came to things involving nails, ladders and hammers, but rather than phone a repairman he’d procrastinate, and vow to fix it himself (sometime before he died.)

For the most part, I put up with it. Until my electric garage door broke. It was then I was forced to reach deep within and find my inner grit, because I refused to get out of the car and open the door under my own power, in bad weather.

Over the months I repeatedly asked him to either fix it himself, or call someone who could. I begged, threatened deadlines, whined, and explained what a tremendous inconvenience it was. His response was always the same: “I’m going to do it,” and “I said I’ll do it.”

There is no doubt that had it been his garage door, it would have been repaired promptly. Today I question why I never pulled my car into his side of the garage and claimed it as mine.

It would have been great to have a husband who enjoyed tinkering with tools; a man who took pride in how his home looked, and enjoyed pleasing his wife.

l left the marriage after twenty three years, and savored every moment of being single for the next twenty three. I am fiercely independent and planned on never remarrying. There was no longer a need to hold back my feelings, or compromise. Beige carpeting? Sure. Company for dinner? Absolutely. Vacation in Italy? Definitely. I loved doing whatever I wanted, and being spontaneous. And, I had phone numbers of several reliable repairmen.

When I wasn’t looking, along came Mighty Marc – the antithesis of my ex-husband; a man I’m pretty sure was born with a tool box in his hand. I liked his face, I liked his smile, I enjoyed his humor and loved his attentiveness, but his skill with tools is what had my heart flip-flopping and saying “yes” to his proposal.

And now, all I have to do is think our loud, “Hmmm, I wonder how that lamp would look on the other side of the room,” and before I take another breath, he’s up, running, and moving the lamp.

He so fast, I feel the need to begin every sentence with, “It doesn’t have to be done now..........” because if I don’t do that, it will be done before I’ve completed my thought.

My voice activates him.

A short while ago our home was renovated. Mighty Marc did 90% of the work himself. The job was complete except for hanging photos and artwork. I didn’t need him for that. I’ve hung scores of items on walls. It’s simple. I eyeball the area where I want the painting to go, hammer a nail into the wall, and hang the artwork on it. Period.

Time? Under a minute.

But, I made the mistake of saying, “I think tomorrow I’ll finally get to hanging the paintings and photos.”

It was as though I’d shot a starter gun because he was instantly off and running to the basement. He returned with wire, picture hooks, T-square, drill, calculator, string, blue chalk, staple gun, tape measure, step stool, and compass.

Okay, not a compass, but that’s because he couldn’t find it.

I watched him work out the calculations, and stood back in awe, grateful that I hadn’t attempted the job myself. I had no idea that the effortless way I’d been doing it my entire life was wrong, and it was intended to be complicated and time consuming.

This must be why my parents never argued. My mother learned early on to sit back with folded arms, and smile, while my father created mountains out of molehills, so he could feel necessary.

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