It starts here.
I unloaded what turned out to be a very carefully packed box filled with what appeared to my eye to just be a bunch of various and sundry things. It was hard to imagine that amidst all the padding, cardboard, and stretchy-foamy wrap, the pieces contained in that box would eventually come together to resemble the bedside table I’d ordered.
It seemed like a smart move to separate the parts from the packing box, and so I carried them over to the living room and noticed that each piece was labeled with a letter from the alphabet. It made sense to keep pieces together, and so I placed the single slab of wood, with a sticker with the letter “a” by itself. Then I positioned “b” and “c”—which looked alike—nearby, but separate from “a”. And so on and so on and so on, until eventually all the wooden—or kinda wooden— pieces were spaced around the coffee table. I turned my attention to the separate-but-connected bags that contained the assorted screws and whatnot. Rather than dump them all out, as would be very, very, very characteristic of me, I placed each grouping together on the coffee table on one of the stretchy-foamy pieces of wrap so they wouldn’t roll onto the floor. Counting to make sure that there were indeed 28 cam bolts in the bag marked H1, 28 cam locks in bag H2, and so on and so on and so on, I laid each category of hardware underneath the small, marked plastic bags they had arrived in. I hate to admit it, but it was kind of a proud moment for a girl like me.
Turning my attention to the instruction manual, which assured me that they had already done the hard part, and that if I followed the simple instructions, they were confident I’d be happy with the result.
I was doubtful.
I’m not what you’d call a detail oriented girl, nor do I have the greatest small motor skills, or an engineering kind of mind. It’s not my way to be methodical. To proceed slowly. To follow the directions. But this time, I thought, “Why not give it a whirl?”. Follow the directions. Trust the process. Take it a step at a time.
And so I did.
The instructions included information on how the hardware pieces worked together, complete with illustrations to make it “easy” for me. OK. If you say so. They also included two illustrations, one with an X through it to show what not to do, and another that was supposed to illustrate what to do. OK. If you say so. They looked exactly the same to me. Although, after reading the fine print below the illustration it made more sense.
It was time to start putting the thing together. It’s a good thing I was alone in the house. I could swear. With abandon. At the top of my lungs. Which I did for the next couple of hours. Thankfully, Gracie-the-chocolate labradoodle loves me in spite of my profanity and yelling. Napping on the couch—which kinda pissed me off—she’d occasionally open one eye just to make sure I hadn’t actually exploded.
I’m not sure where the mad comes from when things don’t go together like I think they should. Maybe it’s that I’m trying so hard to do it right. I have good intentions, so it should be easier than this. Something outside of my control won’t bend to my will. Whatever it is, a project like this brings it out, and it was good to wonder about that as I moved from one step to the next. Wondering about why things are the way they are is always a good thing.
Slowly, I’ll be go to hell if all of those pieces didn’t begin to resemble the nightstand I’d loved on the website. I was making progress, which made me happy, and my limitations kept getting in my way, which made me mad. I’d whoop for joy and curse in anger. Whoop. Curse. Whoop. Curse. Happy. Mad. Happy. Mad. The bright light from the windows actually made it difficult to see details. Curse. The powerful flashlight brought them into focus. Whoop. Just like life, it was never just one way or the other, but a combination of both.
Finally it was done. Time to slide the drawers into the stand and step back to marvel at my work. The top drawer slid in, smooth as glass. Happy. Happy. Happy. The bottom drawer, not so much. It slid off the track, and wouldn’t close. Mad. Mad. Mad Moving too quickly to check the illustration I’d put the second drawer together backwards. There have been times when at this point, something might have gone flying. Thanks to the wondering about where all that mad comes from, I was able to pause, which allowed me the space to make a different choice and make right my mistake. Taking the backwards drawer apart and putting it back together, I made sure to compare it with the other drawer. Sliding the drawers in, it was done. Happy. Happy. Happy.
Now, settled in next to the guest bed it will serve the purpose for which it was designed. Just like that box of stuff, we are a bunch of pieces in need of assembly. But unlike that nightstand we don’t come with a simple instruction manual where others have done the hard work for us. The hard work is called our life. The parts are ours to figure out, learning which goes where, and what goes with what. We come together, bit by bit, over the course of a lifetime, in hopes that we can serve the purpose for which we were designed. Going slow helps. So can trusting the process, going one-step at a time, reading the fine print, wondering why things are the way they are, and of course, swearing.
