Handles
Any omnispective observers who doubted my handiness while witnessing me mow over my lawnmower's power cable this afternoon had their convictions either displaced or doubled when my first reaction was to grab a mallet and bash my way into the rusty power box to flick the circuit breaker back on.
As evident, this was the second time I have severed the cable, and this time I was trying extra hard not to do it. So hard that I can't even explain how it happened, other than trying to maneuverer a mower underneath the drooping canopy of a mulberry tree can be difficult.
This was merely the latest underline that proves it: I'm not Handy. I've tried and I've Googled and I've tithed at Bunnings but my life journey so far has demonstrably proven that I should let other people take ownership for the infrastructure that is needed for the lowest rungs on Maslow's Needs Hierarchy. I'm like a teenager doing the dishes. The apathy isn't there, but the quality is the same. Whether it's carpentry, plumbing, gardening or electrical - I am bad at it. I'm alright with computers, cooking and words. Everything else I thought was a matter of experience but having reached these mid-life reflection points I'm now realising and accepting that I'm below average.
Should I blame my literal hands for this? One destructed wrist on the left side. An index finger on the right that's engorged more regularly than the mosquitos that thrive in my water feature. It's November and I'm still having troubles turning the door handle early in the morning. It's becoming clear that I'll be relying on scientific breakthroughs to make the second half of my life liveable. Actually, even without my injuries I'd probably be relying on that...
The Australian dream of owning a home is my nightmare.
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If you met yourself from the future, what would you ask your future self?
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