My senior year of college, my parents came up to help me move into the house I’d live in that year with five of my closest friends.
As it was a new year and my first and only full year out of a dorm (I went abroad for a semester junior year after two years in dorms to kick things off), I needed some new “furniture.”
I put that in quotes because, of course, we’re not talking anything serious. We’re talking a bed frame, perhaps a stand to stack some of my books and my SONY Dream Machine CD Alarm Clock (which I still use… long live CDs!) and, of course, a desk.
The desk was the only thing that was new and actually needed to be put together.
To be clear, this was that desk. It consisted of four total pieces. And yet somehow, my father and I could not, for the life of us, get it together.
Actually, at a certain point it really was just on him as I stepped back to watch him increasing his chances of having a heart attack at some point in his life, muttering (then screaming) curse words, reddening his face and ultimately threatening to “throw this fucking thing out the goddamn window.”
By the grace of god, my roommate was not only handy but in the house at the time. He fixed the “issue” for us in literally less than 10 minutes. Again, that word is in quotes because the issue was simply removing both my dad and I from the equation.
It is with that back story that I present this feeling because, no matter how unbelievably simple those instructions look, it’s not nearly as easy for me or my kind (that is, Spinellis) to put these goddamn things together. The little booklet they come with has about six pages, all with instructions so large my deceased grandparents could read them, and one of those little Allen wrenches that should come pre-lost to save you the time (side note: that’s going to be my fake name to check in under at hotels… Allen Rench).
Since that fateful but hysterical day in college over 10 years ago, I’ve constructed several things from IKEA on my own and have only broken a few in anger. That’s progress.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Immediately post-smashing (which DOES FEEL FUCKING GREAT, I DON’T CARE HOW STUPID IT LOOKS, MOM!), the realization that you’ll either have to A) clean it all up, B) make it again) or C) both. Ugh.