Sunday, November 2, 2014
Yesterday morning I drove my car to the dealership for a tune-up. As I waited, I browsed the auto shop attached to the service department. It occurred to me that I could use a garage door opener, ideally one that is built in to my car. As I made the decision to answer “yes, indeed I’m looking for something” upon the friendly shop assistant’s greeting, I was overcome by a feeling of anxiety: I didn’t know what exactly to call the item I had in mind and I didn’t want to sound ignorant. Auto shops are one of those places that intimidate me. Ninety percent of their merchandise are things I don’t recognize or even if I do, I have no idea about the differences among the ones that look similar.
It then occurred to me that the last time I had to buy anything in an auto shop was . . . never. The reason is simple: It’s my husband’s job.
You see: There are certain things in our household that fall under my husband’s responsibilities, such as automobiles, electronics, furniture, windows--anything above the ceiling or inside the walls. Most of the time my husband will have whatever is broken fixed before I even notice it. For instance, he changed the water filter because it was old. I have no idea how water filters work so I of course didn’t know it was old. If I notice anything wrong, all I have to do is to call out, “Hon!” and it will get fixed immediately or the next day. If the light bulb in the kitchen is out, I just call out “Hon!” and it will get changed. The wardrobe gliding door is stuck? “Hon!” The printer is running out of ink? “Hon!” Sometimes I don’t even have to say anything. Once I broke the tap knob in our shower (don’t ask how I did it). I left the broken pieces on the counter. And the next day, our shower magically got new knobs.