A dialog at the hardware store

 The Old Guy at the Hardware Store really is an old guy, as old as me.

I explained that I had to put a hasp that could hold a lock on a hollow-core door.

“Do you realize how senseless that is?” he said. It wasn’t a question.

So I said: “I’ve been under adult supervision for decades now. It’s not what makes sense. It’s what she wants.”

“Oh, so your wife wants a lock on a place where you can’t put really one. And it’s got to be done — or else.”

“Or else.”

There was a long pause and I asked: “Any advice?”
“Don’t do it, man. It’s a job for a skilled carpenter.”

I nodded.

He said: “You know how those doors are made, don’t you.” That wasn’t a question either.

I said: “The door’s got a little wood around the perimeter, and the skin of the door is glorified cardboard.”

“Yep, and it’s just an eighth of an inch thick. That’s a pretty thin skin. Unless you’re good you’re going to punch holes in that door.”

“I thought I’d try a drywall anchor. Any advice?”

“Everybody swears by the metal ones. But they don’t set at an eighth of an inch. Your only hope is to try these little plastic ones. They might set at an eighth of an inch.”

I thanked him and got two packages.

“Wish me luck,” I said.

He snorted and said: “Don’t do it, man. It’s a job for a skilled carpenter.”

I went home and did what I do best: procrastinated. Then, while the Wise Woman was watching a movie, I taped the door with blue painter’s tape. I drilled carefully. I set the anchors slowly, turning the screws by hand.

Years ago, I was a barely passable handyman. Today there’s a lock on the door of the Wise Woman’s home office, a small but concrete bit of evidence that love can be transformative.

The transformation, sadly, is not about skill. It’s about what you’re willing to try.