Upon entering my possibilities are endless. Fantasy and imagination take hold; it’s like when my parents said I could be anything I wanted to be and I believed them. Unbridled optimism and ambition (1) rush through me. Browsing, I’m envisioning me, now a Ron Swanson-ian paradigm of manliness, with a sawdust-caked beard standing over a dining room set I fashioned out of nothing more than gumption, grit, and a redwood I wrestled to the ground.
Yes, I’ll depart from my sheltered indoors-y life riddled with bedsores, Hot Pockets, and Internet message boards to a manly existence based in craftsmanship and power tools. I could totally do that; I’ll just need some supplies and a few YouTube tutorials. Soon I’ll be the archetype of a strapping lumberjack, embodying the love interest from most of Cosmopolitan Magazine’s Red-Hot Reads. A handcrafted log cabin will be the ultimate aphrodisiac; I can already hear the panties hitting my maple and walnut floor.
In my head I’m trying to run the numbers. Power saws, drills, and other fancy things that spin are pretty expensive. Soon my vision for a handmade furniture business and reclusive, wooded love dojo is dashed with a hearty dose of disheartening pragmatism (2). Even if I had the money I’d only be kidding myself. I’m no woodworker; I’m just a slovenly Hot Pocket enthusiast whose carpentry knowledge only extends to the point where I can tell you which is the business end of a hammer. Frankly, the only thing I’m recalling from middle-school shop class is that I was terrible at middle-school shop class.
Venturing further, I’m soon surrounded by chemicals, warning labels, and large spinning blades. I’m in over my head; I’ll be just like the shop teacher and end up with missing fingers and two divorces. Of course, trying is a possibility, but then so is trying and ending up at an emergency room awaiting skin grafts. I bite my bottom lip; fear-based despair (3) will mar the rest of this shopping trip.
Grappling with my limiting anxiety as horrific cautionary tales play in my mind, I know I’ll be at the mercy of every plumber, mechanic, or contractor the rest of my life. What an emotional roller coaster today’s been; nothing left to do now except accept my inhibiting worry and associated shame, find the cheapest toilet seat, and call my dad to make the four-hour trip to come over and install it.
Justin Gawel is an adult baby from Michigan whose articles appear on BroBible.com most weeks. Look for more of his writing, his BroBible archive, and his updates at www.justingawel.com or follow him @justingawel on Twitter.
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