Friends, I used to think I was a People Person. This stemmed largely from my early childhood experience; I was, for a hauntingly short time, adorable. Photos of me from before the age of 12 or so show a dimpled, blonde kid with a mischievous smirk and a series of truly garish sweaters I somehow pulled off with a wink and a cocky strut. My early experiences with my fellow human beings largely involved having old ladies pinch my cheeks and offer me chocolates. Frankly, I’m surprised I wasn’t lured into a van and disappeared, because aside from being adorable I was also vaguely stupid.
Then, of course, adolescence hit me like a truck. My eyes clouded, I gained glasses, my hair coarsened, and I got fat. The thing about being alive is that it’s a horror movie: Your fleshy prison keeps changing without warning or permission, developing new maladies and losing old skills seemingly at random. This experience embittered me, naturally enough, but for a while I still thought of myself as quite the Charmer.
These days? Not so much. Twenty years ago when The Duchess and I moved into our house, I stupidly thought I could do all the moving by myself with a handtruck and the right attitude. When I quickly realized how stupid I was, I made a few humiliating calls and some friends turned up to help move heavy furniture with me. When we couldn’t fit the bed up the narrow stairs in this place, they even began sketching complex pulley systems that could be created to haul it up via the roof.
These days, I can’t think of anyone I would make that call to, and even if I could no one would answer it. In part this is because they would simply tell me to spend some money and hire movers, but in part this is because I have, like many middle-aged cranks, drifted from most of my friends. And in general I am okay with this. People are a lot of trouble, and as I’ve aged and gained wisdom I’ve realized that I’m not a charmer. I’m a socially awkward misanthrope who is much better off talking to cats like they can understand him, which is what I do. My social circle are a bunch of cats who communicate via urination and scratches, and that is my best case scenario.
It works well. Until I try to do projects around the house.
Renovation Follies
Trying to renovate or repair anything in your house when you are a) a cheap bastard and b) a friendless misanthrope is difficult. Making it even worse is the fact that I c) way, way, way overestimate my own physical abilities. The same hubris that led Slightly Younger Jeff to imagine he could load a heavy wardrobe onto a handtruck and pull it up two flights of stairs single-handedly has evolved into a Slightly Decrepit Jeff who … pretty much still thinks he can do anything he puts his mind to1.
This has led to several near-death experiences. In fact, I may be dead and living some kind of Owl Creek Bridge moment. I have lifted things I should not have lifted. I have constructed scaffolds that I should not have climbed up on. I have breathed fumes and dust clouds I should not have breathed. I have dangled over the edges of roofs in ways that should have resulted in me being mentioned on the nightly news. Something like LOCAL IDIOT GOES SPLAT or WEEPING CRYBABY RESCUED FROM TELEPHONE WIRE ENTANGLEMENT.
The thing is, when I decide I’m going to, say, renovate my bathroom, I don’t want other people involved. I don’t want contractors in my house, and I don’t want neighbors or friends coming over and making conversation. When I first moved into this neighborhood I put a storm door on the house, and a neighbor came by and asked if I’d help him with his since he thought I did a nice job. And it was terrible, because it was several hours of awkward conversation and an increasing sense that he was angry at me for not being as knowledgeable as he’d assumed, because his storm door installation did not go well.
Who needs that? Not me. I much prefer to wake up on the floor covered in dust and rubble as my cats sniff curiously at me and wonder if the time has come, finally, to consume me. I much prefer to hastily hobble to the emergency room for a quick suture before The Duchess comes home to wonder about all the blood. I much prefer to discover, in real time, how much of my youthful grace and fine motor skills I retain after decades of whiskey and indolence (answer: simultaneously a shocking amount and depressingly little; adrenaline is a superpower).
Nope, I’ll continue to move incredibly heavy things by wrapping them in sheets and sliding them down stairs while I learn the limits of physical strength and the power of gravity, thank you very much. And when you hear that I’ve died in a bizarre home accident, you will know that I likely died surrounded by floor tiles and five very hungry cats.
- I also still think everything should cost the same as it did when I was 10 years old, for some reason. $40 for a hardcover book? Here’s $5 and my eternal disdain.