TouchedByMadness

Biceps Not Included

To anyone who’s ever said, “I’ll do it myself!” I salute you . . . you crazy son of a bitch.

Long ago I determined that a childhood love of Legos means that I have the makings of a mechanical engineer and can therefore build anything. In my defense, given enough time and an instruction booklet in English, Spanish, French, and Dutch, I usually am able to construct something like the picture on the box. That doesn’t mean I have an easy go at it, of course, as I was reminded when I dug up this journal entry this afternoon:

My new bed finally arrived today. I was tingling with anticipation all morning, knowing it was scheduled to be delivered that afternoon. The window they gave me was “between noon and five,” so I expected my shipment to show up shortly after seven. The truck pulled up at 11:45am.

I dragged my three heavy boxes down to my bedroom and dug out my tools. I wondered if I should call my father and ask him to help me assemble the bed. “No, he’ll think I can’t figure it out on my own,” I thought. I rolled up my sleeves. “I’m a competent adult, I can do this myself.” (Nevermind that something as large and unwieldy as a bed is infinitely easier to put together if you have two people.)

So I tore into the cardboard, emptied the contents, and perused the instructions. The three main pieces of the bedframe went together without a hitch. “Ha! Too easy!” I gloated. With the frame in place and my confidence high, I tackled the link spring.

Two and a half hours later . . .

Yes, people, the link spring and my self esteem were in pieces. All that work, and I clearly wasn’t strong enough to put the bed together. I needed a break. I was sore and exhausted. I kicked the box that bore the warning: Adult Assembly Required. “Yeah, just how many adults?” I complained bitterly.

“Just one. Well . . . unless you’re a pathetic, petite little weenie like yourself,” the box mocked.

I tossed a wrench across the room and pouted.

Once I thought I had sulked enough, I dragged the link spring into the kitchen (where I had minimally more room) and wrestled with it some more. Persistence paid off. Eventually one of the do-it-yourselfer patron gods elbowed another in the ribs and said, “Ok, let’s stop messing with her. Let the pieces match up.”

Two hours (almost five hours total), four tantrums, three strategies, one Cherry Coke, and 5,643 curse words later, I finally finished assembling my bed.

Which is fortunate, because now I need a nap.