When I was growing up, Saturdays were for sleeping in. They were for waking up and watching cartoons and the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. Saturday mornings were for sitting on a plastic beanbag chair that stuck to my bare back as I collected bananas and shot through explosive barrels as Donkey Kong. They were for turning up the volume on the TV in attempts to drown out the leaf blower just outside of my window.
Now in my twenty-eighth year of life, I often sit and wonder what qualities I would have to contribute to a successful marriage and family if I found myself involved in one. I can organize an iTunes music library and I can beat everyone I know in a game of ping-pong. I can score a baseball game and even hit a seventy mile-per-hour straight fastball three or four times out of every ten thrown at me. I can name all of the United State capitals and quote Seinfeld with the best of them, but in terms of being a everyday handyman, I'm worthless.
Today as salty sweat fell from my nose to the dirt I was shoveling, my mind began to wander. Fifteen years ago, I would be on that uncomfortable beanbag chair staring at a television set trying to get a plumber to throw fireballs at turtles as my dad worked in the yard. Instead of racing that plumber around on a go-kart, I should have been outside with my dad. I should have been learning about sprinkler systems and retaining walls. I should have been pushing wheelbarrows of edged ice plant and weeds to the burn pile in the canyon. I should have been learning how to change the line of a weed wacker and how to install an outlet.
I don't have a clue how to do any of the essentials that every family man should know how to do. I can plunge a toilet, but I can't change the flusher ball. I can change the oil in a car, but ask me to replace the timing belt and you'll get a blank stare. I know you're supposed to prime a wall before painting it, but I don't know when I'm supposed to use an oil or water-based paint. I don't know if those options even exist!
I grew up with the assumption that if something broke, "Daddy Co' Fix It." My dad is the ultimate man. He does all the work on the family cars, all of the yard work, and has been for as long as I can remember. Saturday has always been his day to mow the lawn, edge the ground cover, pull weeds, hedge the bushes, and blow off the patio. When he wasn't giving this house the amazing yard it has, he was getting his finances in order and doing everything he could to make them grow. Somehow, however, he always found time and knew how to fix any problem my mom, sister, or I ever had. A broken Barbie Doll? A Pinewood Derby Cub Scout car? A broken Christmas decoration? He could do it all. If I were to learn how to be a handyman, he was the one to learn from.
Today I uncovered a septic tank, built a compost sifter and used it, trimmed the orange trees, hosed off the patio, and dabbled in scraping the eaves in preparation of painting them. I learned how to use a table saw and the importance of setting a sprinkler to soften the dirt I needed to shovel. I did and learned all of this in one day. Imagine what I could have learned had I been by his side every Saturday for the past fifteen years!
I often wonder what a girl's father might think of me as a man. How could I support her and provide everyday services to the place we would call home? What kind of father would I be? I'm only twenty-seven, but these thoughts weigh heavy on my neurotic mind. I know how to warp to level eight, but I can't fix the kitchen sink without calling a plumber. Today made me realize how much I've missed and how unimportant the Power Rangers actually are. I was too busy wasting time in front of the TV to learn how to be a man from one of the best.
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