Do Men With Screwdrivers Feel Like Gods?
After finishing a job that required a screwdriver, my dad walked around the house, screwdriver in hand, searching for other things to screw in.
He had this glow of self importance. Like “yeah, I have the power to keep the doors from falling off the hinges.”
I remember catching my ex husband with that same look.
Five years ago my bedroom door started to drag on the floor. Of course I ignored it. Eventually a rat sized dust bunny coagulated under the door. Every time I opened the door this unsightly composite of hair, dust and who knows what scurried across the floor.
I tried vacuuming it up. But the suction power of my unit was no match for the hair monster. To pry it out I had to forcefully lift the door with one hand and tease it out with the other. Not fun.
Every few weeks, the monster returned. Fixing the door would obviously prevent this. But deep down I felt that this just wasn’t my job. This was a job for a guy with a screwdriver.
My son was seven at the time. This was not something he could handle without being shown what to do first.
I had to become the guy with a screwdriver.
I examined the hinges and looked at the screws. They were the ones with the crosses on their heads. They were…
