The Un-Handy Man
While Lynn and Brendan went to church this morning, I went to Lowe’s to buy supplies for the painting project beginning tomorrow. When we bought our home, it was only recently constructed, and the contractor left the walls primed, but unpainted. So finally, we are paying someone to paint the interior of our home for us.
We had settled on a color awhile ago, a kind of beige called Hopsack, but as I waited for the paint to be mixed, I browsed the color swatches, thinking of colors that might look good in the spare bathroom and our bedroom (the only rooms we are considering painting ourselves, since they are out of general public view).
I am always intrigued by how smart retailers sell products, doubly so when the product is paint or some other item that most people don’t put a lot of thought into beyond color and price.
I noticed that some of the color swatches had a label in one corner that said “National Trust Historic Preservation.” Looking more closely, I discovered that these colors were, apparently, the same colors as could be found in historic landmarks across the country. Most of the landmarks were hotels, but I did see a color labeled “Mark Twain House Oak.”
Then there was “Coral Gables Biltmore Mediterranean Mocha” and “Cincinnatian Hotel Nichols Taupe” (who knew Cincinnati had any famous landmarks?), and “Lyndhurst Victorian Rose.”
I found myself wondering if I visited the Cincinnatian Hotel Nichols whether I would indeed find the walls to be painted this particular color of taupe, and at the same time, ironically drawn to choosing only colors with the “National Trust” label.
After all, who would paint their walls a plain Victorian Rose color when they could paint their walls the same color of Victorian Rose as the Lyndhurst?
There is a part of me regretful that we have to pay someone to paint our walls. I wish we could do it ourselves. We actually did paint the master bathroom ourselves, but anyone sitting on our toilet and looking up at the ceiling in concentration will see that despite taping off everything in sight, we still got splotches of paint on the ceiling.
My wife and I are dreadful painters. And anyway, such projects always end up as arguments because she says I don’t take my time and do it right, and I say I don’t need a supervisor, and I hear her sigh as I get yet another dab of paint on the ceiling, and I feel my temper rising because, damnit, I am being as careful as I can, but I…Just…Cannot…Paint! AAARRRRGGGGHHHH!
It just isn’t worth it. I’ve got money. I can pay someone else to do the job, and save myself the aggravation and feelings of inferiority.
Times like this, though, I wish I’d learned something useful in school. I wish I’d taken more vocational classes, or that I’d paid attention to my Dad and Grandad when they were working around the house. Instead, I always had my head in books, believing I was going to be this great thinker and writer.
I was an Intellectual. Such things as learning how to change the oil in my car were beneath me. Now I don’t have either the delusion of being an intellectual, or the practical skills that most men have, at age 33.
Our toilet in the master bath runs constantly unless you take the lid off and jiggle the thingamabobber metal stick kinda thing that runs from the plastic whoppermajig to the rubber pluggerbagong.
Do you think I can fix that? I took a screwdriver one day and tightened a screw. There, let’s see if that works.
Nope. OK, I am out of ideas. I’ll have to call the plumber one of these days.
This weekend, we had a brief scare when there seemed to be very little hot water for baths. We refrained from doing laundry or running the dishwasher, and it did not seem to help. So I got the instruction manual for the hot water tank.
There were all sorts of recommendations in the Troubleshooting section for just such a problem. The whosit that provides cold water to the tank might be cracked, thereby allowing cold water to mix with the hot water at the top of the tank. There were instructions for replacing it, all beyond my skills.
Besides that, there was the risk of being sprayed with scalding water if not done correctly. I foresaw myself going to the emergency room, the flesh dripping from my melted hands.
I am useless, except as someone who can write checks to other people to do the work I ought to be able to do myself.
I am not being anti-intellectual when I say that in school, the emphasis is all on the wrong subjects. Just like many parents unconsciously instill in their athlete children the idea that athletics is the most important aspect of childhood, and that (maybe) they, too, can one day make it as a professional athlete, I think sometimes parents who are academically-minded instill similar false expectations in their bright children.
In my case, my parents were not academically-minded, but I was myself drawn to solitary and sedentary academic pursuits, rather than athletics or trade skills. I look back, and I think, “what a waste.” What an absolute waste. All those books I read–what a waste. My English major in college–a waste. I don’t even use it in my work life.
The only aspect of my academic career that I think was a smart choice was getting my Masters in English, because no matter the subject, an MA just looks good on the resumé. I know it was probably the deciding factor in me getting the great job I currently hold, a job which has nothing to do with English, by the way.
These feelings of uselessness and purposelessness, of having wasted my life and my meagre talents, crop up at the strangest times, and I spend the rest of the day depressed. Why would a trip to Lowe’s trigger my inferiority complex? Why would a trip to Lowe’s start me down the path of self-loathing and negativity?
I have everything to be happy about, and yet I am not happy. Inside, I feel like a complete failure.
I wrote a short story last week, my first since October of last year I believe. Usually, such an event inspires a couple weeks of true happiness and good feeling.
Nothing, this time. Writing that story was like exercising a limb slowly going paralyzed. I did it because I felt I had to write this one last story. The idea had been there since last Fall, and it is likely my last idea, and I felt I needed to write it down.
But there was no pleasure in the doing, and no pleasure in the accomplishment of it. Without that pleasure in achieving something difficult, I think my writing is, now, truly dead and buried. There is no reason to go on with it.
I heard an NPR story today about a concert pianist who, in 1965, suffered a mysterious neurological affliction that curled the fingers on his right hand into a claw. He had to give up playing because of the incurable disorder. The story was about how he tried to rebuild his life without playing music.
I feel like I am at that point, too. It’s over. I won’t write anymore. So what do I do with myself now?
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Wow, what a post. How can you say that you won’t write anymore when you can write a post like this about the not-writing? I hope I don’t sound like I’m being dismissive when I say that this seems crazy to me. You’re a writer, and this post itself, this blog, is something I’d point to as proof. It might be that for a time you’re not going to do the fiction-writing you’ve done, but I seriously doubt that you’re all out of ideas.
And all this stuff about having wasted your time and talents? From what you’ve written about your past, it seems to me that your early interest in books and writing and the solitary pursuits was at least halfway a defense mechanism, which is not to say that it’s less worthy. Hell, it was a damned fine defense mechanism. It worked for you–you got through that really difficult time and came out the other side empathetic, thoughtful, and willing to grow. How can anything that helped you to become that sort of person be a waste? Every once in a while, I wish I knew how to change the oil in my car too, but you know what? I know that I could figure out but it’s not worth it to me, not when I can jsut pay someone $30 to do it for me, freeing up my time to spend with my family or to do other things. In other words, I take your point about having practical skills and all, but really they’re not more important than the skills you do have. You can’t pay someone else to do your empathizing for you.
Comment by Scrivener — Sunday, 25 February 2007 @ 12:52 pm
Those paint colors are irresistible to history people, eh?
I don’t know how many people have practical skills. Those who can do these things — change a faucet, hang drywall, do simple electrical — are much revered, even as do it yourselfers, which leads me to believe that practical skills are somewhat scarce.
You’re in good company.
As for the other things… crossroads are a bitch, aren’t they? I wish life would sometimes throw in a big signpost,something obvious to give a new direction when we feel an old one has outworn its usefulness.
Though, I’ll say again, I still think you’re an excellent writer and it’d be a damn shame to give that up. But perhaps it is time for you to try another path, if only for your own sanity.
Comment by Heather — Sunday, 25 February 2007 @ 2:22 pm
Your story, starting with dreadful painter skills and right through the toilet “fixing”, was absolutely haunting to me. That’s because I’ve said and experienced the exact same things and regrets myself. In my case my stepdad was very handy, but at the point he came into my life I wasn’t interested in learning from him or building a relationship with him.
Not to mention he and I are like oil and water - even now, even though we both try hard and do decently at getting along.
He had a great deal of practical skills, but I was never interested in mechanical or household running skills. Still, he managed to teach me more than a few things.
Funnily enough, though I regret not learning more about some of those things, I don’t regret my book learning at all. I really enjoyed it, felt quite fulfilled, and even now I continue to be a voracious learner. I am adding to my regime, though, a healthy dose of mechanical and household skills - from my wife’s father, who is also a pretty talented “handyman”. He and I also get along really well, which of course helps.
All in all, I’m amazed by how closely this post mirrors my own experience. Maybe I’m getting more value out of my education and interests in my daily job than you, or maybe I didn’t think of myself of as much of an Intellectual, or maybe I just had a lot less education or lower expectations.
Whatever the reason, I still think there’s a chance I’ll be “really successful”. Many people didn’t “make a name for themselves” until late in life. Some didn’t make it until after they died.
But hope springs eternal, at least (so far) for me. 
Perhaps pain makes for a more compelling story, but your posts definitely still seem to have power. Hang in there. Paul suggested the key was not finding what would make us happy, but learning contentment with whatever we have.
Comment by Step — Sunday, 25 February 2007 @ 5:52 pm
I too wish I were better at home improvement. I have grand ideas, and watch too many decorating show. But those people want to work, and I do not.
I have been known to put up with a great deal, the latest being some oddly malfunctioning florescent lights in the kitchen.
I am often annoyed by my near helplessness in mechanical matters, other than gadgets. Part of it is undoubtedly fostered by always relying on my father.
And he always said, what are you going to do when your dad isn’t around? And I always said, you’ll always be around. I was thinking of mortality, but turns out that you can lose your dad’s handiness to distance, as well.
I’m reminded of something my pyschologist uncle said once at a family reunion, when his brothers tried to press him into physical labor, digging holes…
“I got a PhD so I wouldn’t have to dig holes.”
And perhaps some doctors would be happy to dig holes. But some are not.
Your English degree may not be put to good use, and may not be helping you paint your house, but it gave you pleasure at the time. And a master’s in anything is better than no degrees at all and having to paint for a living. Unless you like painting.
Comment by Mel B — Monday, 26 February 2007 @ 2:01 am
Thank you all for the kind comments. It’s been pretty clear to me for awhile that I need to see a doctor for depression. My wife, who is sick of me, is actually trying to find a doctor for me. I’ve made a few half-hearted attempts to find someone for myself, but have never followed through.
If I end up seeing someone, past experience with psychologists makes me doubtful it will do any good. My feeling is that there are some aspects of life one must simply endure, happily or not. For thousands of years people probably lived unhappy lives without ever treating it as a medical illness. The question is how to adapt to a life like that.
I hesitate to even mention it, because of my track record of making appointments and then blowing them off. If my wife finds someone who will see me, I may blow that appointment off as well.
But maybe I shouldn’t feel like my life is done at age 33, either. I feel old. Finished. It’s not right to feel that way. There has to be an answer for why I feel as if I’ve hit the dead end of the road.
I used to think the answers to my questions about myself lay in books. One of the reasons I read was to know myself. I remember how I’d pick up a book and wonder what kind of relation to my own life I’d make from it.
I don’t expect that from books anymore. I don’t read anymore, and that’s one of the things that saddens me. I can’t find any answers, any release from self-torment, anywhere.
Comment by greypilgrim — Monday, 26 February 2007 @ 6:41 pm
You’re making me depressed, now.
I suppose the fact that many of your faithful readers consider you to be a good writer and contributer to the brood doesn’t cheer you up?
Bah!
At least you don’t have to paint.
But you do suffer a lot of guilt.
What you need is a good trip out west to make you feel better.
Seek solace in the mountains.
You need to gain more life experience and travel and renew your interest in life and writing. And what better way to do that than through a trip to one of the most majestic national parks: Yosemite?
Comment by Mel B — Tuesday, 27 February 2007 @ 2:11 am
I do appreciate the apparent faith others have in me. I just have none of it for myself. I’ve read that a sign of depression is no longer enjoying those things one once enjoyed, so maybe the not writing, the not reading, and the depression are all tied up together in one dark knot.
I know I’ve felt quite sick for some time, now; and the old cures do not work anymore. I derive no pleasure from reading or writing, or much of anything. Even attempting to read only prompts me to think about what an ignorant blockhead I’ve become, having fallen so far from the sharp-witted Graduate Student I once was. I have shelves upon shelves of books in my home and office, most of which I read at one time, long ago, and now I look at them and have no desire to even crack open a single one. There is no pleasure in them. Nor will they help me figure out what is wrong with me.
Every weekend, I go through this internal debate about whether to just be rid of the rotten things. Box up the lot of them and take them to Good Will, or better, just destroy them. Trash them in a dumpster behind the McDonalds. Ultimately, that would be a self-destructive gesture, rather than a house-cleaning attempt. But the temptation to do it is always there. I like to think of such destruction the way, maybe, a person who obsessively cuts themself thinks of the razor blade. Maybe there would be relief in destroying a significant portion of the person I once was.
Comment by greypilgrim — Tuesday, 27 February 2007 @ 7:15 am
That self-destructive urge is a strong one, isn’t it?
Comment by Heather — Tuesday, 27 February 2007 @ 1:32 pm
It is a very strong urge. Sometimes I think that allowing my pain to manifest itself in a physical way might be better than simply suppressing and struggling with it internally. If destroying my books provides a release of some kind, however regrettable, maybe it would be worth it. At one time, I could have no more thought of destroying a book than I could of cutting off my own hand.
To return to the original subject at hand, the painters are doing a tremendous job on the house. It is well worth paying them to do the job correctly. And speaking of irresistible urges, I do find myself curiously drawn to the color of “Mark Twain House Oak.” Maybe it would be right for my office. My office furniture is solid oak, after all.
Comment by greypilgrim — Tuesday, 27 February 2007 @ 2:52 pm