Aisle Seven

** Warning: Do not read this post while operating heavy machinery. May cause drowsiness.

Speaking of heavy machinery…

I am an independent woman. As such, I’ve taken it upon myself to become “handy”. This trait isn’t indigenous to my consciousness. When something breaks, which happens often when one lives in an extremely old house with teenagers, the first thought that comes to my mind is “screw this, I’m moving.” I struggle to ignore that thought. Moving isn’t practical at the moment, so I add the broken item to my “to fix list”.

I’ve often bragged about the successful repairs I’ve made on a few appliances, my ceiling fan installation, changing out locks and door knobs,  drywall patching, and paintingbut in all honesty when considering the extensive list of necessary repairs my house needs, I have done very little.

There are three obstacles keeping me from accomplishing the remaining repairs:

1. I don’t have the time. I work a lot, and when I’m not working, I take care of routine things like managing teenagers, laundry, cooking, etc. 

2. I don’t have the right tools. I need some serious tools to do the work that needs to be done: a saw, a power drill, a nail gun, for starters.

3. I don’t have the money to spend on the necessary tools and supplies.

All three, ridiculous  excuses. I have vacation time coming up in a couple of weeks. I know where they sell tools. I have a credit card.

I start by shopping for a drill. Here, I am completely out of my element. The smell of fresh cut wood is in the air as I enter the store. I’m overwhelmed, and inexplicably feeling almost teary. A very good looking man with neck muscles who is wearing an orange apron approaches me. He asks if I need help. Now I might really cry. Suddenly I can’t remember what the hell that thing I’m shopping for is called. I start to panic. I look at my smart phone for help. Ah yes… I bat my lashes and say ” I need a power drill.” He says “aisle seven” and walks away. I think he rolled his eyes at me- Jerk! 

I find aisle seven just fine on my own, thank you very much. This is just stupid. There are so many types of drills, that I can actually feel my IQ dropping: hammer drills, impact drivers, right angle drivers, air drills, power screwdrivers, built in lights, built in level- What the hell is a brushless motor? Do I need that? There are even pink drills! Is it odd that this offends me? Why not make a Hello Kitty drill? They probably do. Now my thoughts drift as I imagine accessories to match that pink drill. A low slung tool belt in a shimmery silver, rhinestone safety glasses, elbow length work gloves… I wonder if they make those. 

I have been in aisle seven for an hour now. The muscly sales associate along with some real customers join me in aisle seven. He seems to have grown a five o’clock shadow since we last met. He really is a fine specimen. A sigh escapes my lips. They ignore me and continue speaking to each other in a language I think might be English, “nickel cadmium lithium ionic chuck auger bits”. I think I’m in an aisle seven vortex, and if I don’t break free now, I may never get out. I decide to attempt escape. I retrace my steps to the entrance and take a deep breath as I exit and the fresh air hits me. Clarity returning, I think I might do better shopping online. 
The Daily Post, May 2, 2015, Daily Post:

Beyond the Pale~ When was the last time you did something completely new and out of your element? How was it? Will you do it again?<a href=””>Beyond the Pale</a><a href=””>Beyond the Pale</a>

8 thoughts on “Aisle Seven

  1. I share your pain. I used to do stuff, but then my son grew up and decided I was incompetent. He stole all my tools which he called “borrowing” but since he never intended to return anything, I feel he and I need to reassess our language interface. I have a lightweight dremel I keep hidden in the linen closet where I’m pretty sure he won’t ever find it. I have a hammer stowed in the silver chest where I’m SURE he’ll never go. I don’t have a single screwdriver left. Or a staple gun. Or staples. Or tape. Or glue. Or nails. Or even thumbtacks. And the son who has my tools is permanently too busy to do any of the little jobs I could do … and Garry is a 10-thumbs special kind of guy. So what gets broken, stays broken. Forever and ever, world without end.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. That sounds like the clothes relationship I have with my daughters. My empty closet is like your empty tool chest. Maybe “borrow means something different in the urban dictionary.


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