Delusions of Competence

A little over a year ago I went to Menard’s and bought a new garage door to replace the ailing one that was being held together by bailing wire. For some reason I had the strange notion that I could actually remove the old door and install the new one all by myself. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “HAHAHAHA HAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHA!“ You're right, of course. The Menard’s guy delivered the new door in two very large and very heavy cartons that remained in our garage for about 11 months. The reason for the delay was the fact that I made the mistake of reading the instructions, a 36 page heavily detailed manual that states one page one, “You can install your new garage door yourself IF: 1) you have help; 2 you have the right tools and reasonable mechanical aptitude or experience; and 3. You follow these instructions very carefully.” Numbers 1 and 3 seemed at least possible, but when I read number 2, I felt the old sphincter tighten up. My paternal grandfather at one time actually taught what was then called “manual arts” in a Wisconsin high school. He failed, however, to pass any these genes on to me and the more I read of the instructions the faster my hopes faded. Sprinkled throughout the manual are no less than 18 (count ’me) bright read caution signs warning me of various dangers. The words “severe injury” or “very dangerous.” or “strangulation” occur in each of these warnings. I set the project aside for several months and consulted with a relative who I knew was capable of finding his butt with both hands. He informed me that the spring on my new garage door was an especially wicked kind and that he had actually attended a class once on how to install them. The guy that taught the class (I’m not making this up) was MISSING AN ARM, a result of his failing to take the necessary precautions. NEVERTHELESS, I did open up the cartons, each of which contained what appeared to be a complete disassembled aircraft carrier. Enough. Reality took hold. I finally managed to locate a guy who said he could install the door. He showed up today while I was at work. My wife said he “had huge muscles” and was “really cute.” I know she enjoyed sharing this information with me -- also the fact that he accomplished the entire task (including installing a new opener) in three hours. “He didn’t swear once,” she added. What possessed me to think that I could take this on in the first place? Maybe somebody spiked my prune juice with testosterone. I sure could use a shot now.