There are two things in life I have zero interest in understanding: car engines and home plumbing. So, naturally, these are the two things that always break down at the worst possible moments. You’d think I was living in some cosmic sitcom, where the writers have it out for me. It’s like the universe takes one look at my middle-aged, single-woman status and says, “You know what she needs? A dead alternator and a leaking toilet—on the same day.”
When something breaks down, my first reaction is always the same: I lose my fecal matter. The panic sets in, a wave of helplessness washes over me, and I spiral into a pit of doom. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to know what to do. These aren’t things I want to clutter my brain with. My expertise lies in knowing who to call and how much to pay them. But when you don’t have those answers—or worse, you don’t have the money—well, that’s when the real anxiety kicks in. Forget fight or flight; my response is curl up into a ball and pretend this isn’t happening.
People call these “minor domestic challenges.” Minor? To me, these are Mount Everest-sized obstacles that I’m supposed to scale with nothing but a butter knife and a roll of duct tape. And while we’re at it, can I mention that I’ve been in the Marine Corps? I’ve survived the gas chamber, 13 weeks of boot camp, rabid drill instructors, and sand fleas biting my face while I’m repelling down towers. I’ve fired rifles, crawled through mud, and endured enough sleep deprivation to turn a normal human into a zombie. Yet, I’m here to tell you that all of that was easier than trying to fix my own toilet.
You see, those things—the hardcore, military things—interested me. They were challenges I sought out and conquered. They defined my ability to push beyond what I thought I could do. But figuring out where the leak in my shower is coming from? Nope. Total panic. Complete helplessness. The moment I hear that first drip, my blood drains from my face, my knees buckle, and I become that air-filled wacky waving tube man you see outside car dealerships. I flail. I falter. I fail.
The real kicker is that once the panic subsides, a new fear takes over. It’s the dreaded question: Who can I trust to fix this? Oh, don’t get me started on that one. Small-time repair businesses are a gamble. Some of them are solid gold—you’ll get fair pricing, good work, and they’ll probably even throw in a free smile. But others? Others are a master class in self-esteem bartering. You hand over your money and hope they don’t run off with it. I’ve heard so many horror stories of people getting scammed by shady contractors, and I am terrified of being one of those people.
So what do I do when I don’t have the money, or I can’t find someone I trust to fix it? Easy. I ignore it. I slap a metaphorical (and sometimes literal) Band-Aid on the problem and hope it’ll magically fix itself. Shower leak? Well, I’ll just avoid that bathroom. It’s basically a haunted room now, right? I’ll go all paranormal activity on it and board up the door. Problem solved. Need a shower? I’ve got a garden hose outside—what’s a little exposure to the elements? Next thing you know, I’m like some homesteading reality TV star, rigging up makeshift solutions and pretending it’s rustic living.
And it’s not just the house. My car? Let’s just say the last time the engine made a weird noise, I turned up the radio and pretended I didn’t hear it. Out of sight, out of mind, right? I mean, I have a gym membership—what’s wrong with walking everywhere? It’s great cardio!
But what if I’ve been looking at this all wrong? What if—brace yourselves—I’ve never lost control? What if my supposed lack of control is really just my unwillingness to accumulate the knowledge (or cash) needed to fix the problem? It sounds simple enough, right? But here’s the thing: why would I willingly do something that’s 10 times harder for me than it is for the average person when I could just hire someone to do it? I mean, that’s the dream, isn’t it?
The problem is, I’ve become so used to outsourcing things I don’t know how to do that I’ve forgotten how to be resourceful. When you have the luxury of picking up the phone and calling a professional for every broken pipe, leaky faucet, or funky engine noise, you forget what it’s like to have to figure it out. But what happens when you don’t have the money or the time? What happens when you can’t afford the luxury of ignorance? Well, then it’s time to get creative—and that’s a muscle I haven’t flexed in a while.
I’m not saying it’s easy. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s going to hurt—a lot. But here’s the worst conclusion of all: what opportunities have I missed because I wasn’t willing to roll up my sleeves and figure it out? How many of these so-called “domestic disasters” could have been resolved if I had just swallowed my pride, asked for help, or reached out to someone who knew more than I did? It’s humbling, really. The idea that I could have saved myself a whole lot of time, money, and stress if I’d just been a little more proactive. But who wants to admit that?
So here’s my takeaway, the hard-earned lesson from a lifetime of minor breakdowns—both mechanical and emotional: maybe it’s time to stop panicking, stop ignoring, and start learning. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll figure out how to fix the damn toilet myself. Or, you know, at least figure out who to call. One step at a time.