My dear husband Gilberto decided recently to spend a couple of weeks on his home turf, Mexico City. He had some errands to take care of, and he wanted to take the opportunity to visit his family.
I was a little jealous because Mexico City has the loveliest weather right now. You can actually wear a t-shirt during the day without sweating through it, and at night, you can put on an entire jacket. I would have almost forgotten what that’s like, except that Gilberto took pleasure in calling me each night and telling me how chilly it was. He’s so much fun.
My daughter and I had to stay in Puerto Vallarta and go to school, even though we really love Mexico City. I have a strong feeling that Gilberto might have timed it this way. Although he loves his family, he knows he can do many more things he likes to do when we are safely working and learning in Vallarta. On our last family vacation, for example, we took in the sights at every Sephora and comic book store in Mexico City. We didn’t see a single music store, something he very likely remedied during his solo trip.
I always get a sinking feeling when he leaves because I know that something is bound to go wrong at home. I don’t want to name it, but in the darkest part of my heart, I’m certain that Something Essential will break down, and I’ll have to deal with it myself.
This is a problem, my friends, because I pride myself on being an independent, self-reliant person who can deal with whatever life throws at me. I’m a MOM, for crying out loud. And yet, when the washing machine stops twirling or the car engine doesn’t turn over, I call my incredibly handy husband, who is fantastic at problem-solving and deals with handymen with no complaints.
I feel like I have my own talents, like organizing our entire lives, so I shouldn’t feel badly about it, but I do. So when Gilberto goes on a trip, I know something is bound to happen to showcase every un-handy bone in my body.
And sure enough.
I got up this morning and managed to make my coffee before the dogs began their ritual dance at the door, meaning I better hurry up and take them outside. I moved to flip the deadbolt back to open the door, when lo and behold, it didn’t move a single millimeter. I smiled at myself nervously and pulled a bit harder. Nothing. I started sweating.
My daughter asked what was wrong, and because she is pretty resourceful (like her dad), I asked her to come over and give it a try. STILL NOTHING. She became bored (thanks, adolescence) and left me there. And I began to understand that we were trapped inside like rats on a burning ship. Or something to that effect.
Yes, I had to call out to my neighbor. Yes, he brought over another neighbor, and they both tried getting the door open with spare keys, to no avail. Yes, the neighbor had to climb up to his roof and climb down into my home, almost breaking his neighborly neck on the descent.
Yes, he opened it quite easily after showing me the security knob you simply pulled out before flipping back the deadbolt bar.
Yes, I called Gil immediately after thanking and deeply apologizing to my VERY smiley neighbors. Of course, I demanded his prompt return as I told the story, except I don’t think he heard me through his laughter.
I’m strong and independent. And about as un-handy as they come. All I have to do is convince Gil to never leave again, and I will keep everyone fooled. Well. Except my neighbors. And all of you.
