Tuesday, September 14, 2010


We’re having a little insulation work done to our house in the basement, which has required me to move some stuff around and partially confront the trash heap that is my downstairs bike repair shop.


Whenever we do stuff like this—which thankfully, is pretty rarely—I’m reminded how much I fear change. Or perhaps it’s not “change” exactly; it’s more a matter of disruption; I don’t do well with things being all torn apart, especially when there remains the prospect of having to put them all back together again.

Humpty-Dumpty, fuck him; had he fallen on my watch, I’d have just left him there.

I realize that you’ve got to occasionally undertake projects that shake things up a bit; we’ll save money in the long run with this one and even get a little tax credit for energy efficiency, but I keep thinking, as I peek downstairs at all the commotion, that I’d have been just as happy to leave things as they were.

My parents were pretty good about home repair and maintenance; I know they put a new roof on the house at some point, and my mom was forever paying to have the gutters cleaned or whatever. Me? Not so good. I’ll probably end up one of those scary old people living in a moss-covered shack that all the neighborhood kids are afraid of and which their parents would like to see razed.

How do people whose homes are damaged in floods or fires do it? If my basement were filled up with mud, I’d just walk away; if I had to pick through the smoldering remains of picture albums and mementos, I’d bail.

Sometimes I fantasize that it would be cool if an earthquake swallowed up our entire house and we could just start over; then I wouldn’t have to worry about putting my messy bike shop back together again. I’d just buy the Park Master Mechanic kit and begin afresh.


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