The Hazards of Marrying a Handyman

When I met Jeff, he was an accountant.

When I married Jeff, he was an accountant.

But when our washer broke down, Jeff turned into a handyman.

I didn’t know what happened. Jeff had the machine pulled apart within minutes – parts strewn across the laundry floor. And he had this look of consternation about him. A serious manner overtook his usual joking self.

You would have thought Agent 007 was on the job.

Suddenly, he needed more tools, which devolved into a two-hour detour of scavenging through the garage. Once said tools were acquired, the repair commenced.

To my amazement (and I mean that in the nicest possible way), he fixed it. Well, I mean, he mostly fixed it. There remained a certain temperamental attitude with the machine after that first fix. Closing the door required a sort of hip-to-door action while one hand simultaneously pushed the starter knob.

But hey, it worked.

After Jeff successfully repaired the washer, though, it became something of a personal matter to him that it remained thus repaired. Any subsequent break-downs were forever-after perceived as a personal affront to him. It was as if our washer had become our very own Moby Dick. There, lurking amongst the sloshing laundry water, a menacing creature was ready to take Jeff down at any given moment. And Jeff wasn’t about to give in.

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On the first and third Friday of the month, I write on the topic of marriage over at Titus 2 In Action. I invite you to join me over there today.