Assembly Required

As a rule, I'm not good with tools.  I can fix you a sandwich, but there's no way I can fix anything else.

It didn't have to be this way.  My dad is a fixer.  I don't remember a single repairman ever entering our house when I was a boy.  Whether it was the dishwasher, the kitchen sink, the heater, or the family car, my dad could handle it.  He was the man of the house.

And because I was the boy of the house, I was always involved.  My job was simple, yet critically important: I held the light.

We were quite the pair back then.  In fact, if my dad and I happen to be buried in adjacent plots, I expect that our tombstones might read "He Fixed Everything" and "He Held the Light."

But of course, I wasn't there just to hold the light.  I was there to learn, serving an apprenticeship of sorts so that when I grew up, when I would be in charge of a house full of things ready to break, I'd be ready to fix them.  It seemed like a perfect plan, except that I had absolutely no interest in hammers, wrenches, or electrical circuits.  I learned nothing.  (Incidentally, my mother is at least partially to blame.  While my dad was trying to teach me to fix things, my mom was busy brainwashing me with "Free to Be You and Me," 70s propaganda designed to debunk the stereotyping of gender roles.  Marlo Thomas and company won me over.)

Thirty years later, I'm paying the price.  I can accept the financial hit I take in money spent to have crown molding or lawn sprinklers installed, but there's a hidden cost that I could never have anticipated when I was ten years old.  When a friend casually mentions that he built the deck in his backyard or when my four-year-old daughter asks when her uncle will be in town so he can fix her broken drawer, I'm being taxed for my mechanical ineptitude.  When I spend three hours putting together an IKEA bookshelf, I'm being punished for daydreaming while I was holding that flashlight so many years ago.

My big problem, though, is that sometimes I can't admit -- not even to myself -- that I have no skill in this area.  Just two days ago my wife was buying herself a new bike and the salesman mentioned that we could save thirty bucks if we took it home and assembled it ourselves.  So Leslie turns to me and asks, "Do you think you can put together this bike?"

The obvious answer should have been no.  I should have climbed atop the counter and announced to all within earshot that I had no business putting together anything that wasn't made out of Lincoln Logs or Legos.  I should have said that I'd happily pay a hundred dollars for someone else to put the bike together, but I did none of these things.  

Instead, I looked at my three children, eagerly waiting to be impressed; I looked at the salesman, smugly predicting my surrender; and I looked at my wife, her eyes overflowing with encouragement.  I was powerless.

"Sure, I can put this together."  I think I even scoffed and said, "No problem."

Reality hit a few hours later, on step two.  The good news was that unlike IKEA's products, the bike came with directions that actually had words; the bad news was that the words made absolutely no sense at all.  The bike was manufactured in China, and it was clear that the instruction manual had originally been written in Mandarin, then translated to two or three other languages before being reincarnated in English.

There were moments when I thought about packing the bike into the minivan and making the drive of shame back to the bike shop.  Then I wondered if I could instead take the bike (or rather, take the assorted pieces of metal which could actually become a bike under the proper hands) to another bike shop, thereby lessening the shame.

But I persevered.  Things looked better the following morning, and although I did call the bike salesman two separate times for help, I was able to make something that resembled a bike.  (See below.)  Even so, as Leslie rode down the driveway on her maiden voyage, I had visions of the bike disintegrating beneath her cartoon-style, the wheels spinning alone down the road, leaving her sitting on the cement still gripping the useless handlebars.

But it didn't happen like that.  The bike was fine, and Leslie spent the afternoon riding around the neighborhood with Alison, the first time she had ever gone on a bike ride with her daughter.  Even though I wouldn't admit it at the time, I was proud.  Next time, though, I promise to pay the assembly fee, whatever it might cost.  

Maybe I can even get a discount if I offer to hold the light.

Comments

[Sunny]

Nice Bike!

[JoAnn]

I love that bike! So cute! Where did you go shopping?