A little groan rumbles out of me when I unwrap gifts that require assembly.
There are always instructions, that I tend to call "destructions."
My poor wife knows she cannot be in the house (or the neighborhood) when I force myself to spread out a project and begin to decipher the "instructions."
I am a guy. I am supposed to be good at putting things together. I should enjoy doing things with my hands. But usually what I want to do with my hands involves someone else's throat.
After I begin the simple task of assembly, here is what will happen:
- I will be soaked in sweat, puddling on my glasses.
- Some part of my body will be bleeding.
- And I will abuse the English language.
Recently I was putting together fishing-rod holders. Nothing to cut. No sharp objects ... except for that tiny staple in the bag of screws. Evil little thing. I had to pause ... until the bleeding stopped.
I read each line of instruction ... more than once. I will nod and mumble, "Yes, that makes sense." But after Step 1, it does not make sense.
I do need to acknowledge the folks at IKEA.
They do not pretend I have any common sense or mechanical skills. Instead, they assume I am just a mammal — with hands. And that's a good thing.
Their step-by-step assembly for bookshelves had no words ... just simple illustrations that show what goes where.
Yes, I had to take one apart and do it again. And, yes, there was sweating and words that children and grandparents and small animals should not hear.
But the instructions were there. I could clearly see my mistake.
Now, want to know something even sadder? I have two folders full of saved "instructions." Together they are about four inches thick.
I keep these words of wisdom — just in case. That never happens.
But ... if I had to put something back together again — well ... well, you know what would happen next.
I’m Lonny Cain, and that’s my perspective.
