“I Locked Myself In” Club

Today I locked myself in my master bedroom for an hour. I did this about fifteen minutes after going on a tirade to my husband on the phone, touting how well we’d be equipped if there should be an Armageddon or Apocalypse (I get those two confused). I brought up our friends as a contrary example; they eat out every single meal and need to hire a handyman to change a lightbulb. Look at me, I was painting doors, installing tile, grouting, and caulking. On this fine Sunday morning, I was painting the last three doors in my Benjamin Moore white semi-gloss.

Ironically, earlier this week I removed 13 door handles in preparation for the painting. I also accidentally closed one of the doors without their knob attached and used my ingenuity to study another knob and figured out the precise latch to push from the inside to make it open. I was so proud of this accomplishment I demonstrated it to my husband later in the evening. I slammed a door shut and just as I expected he said, ”Oh shit, there’s no knob!” I came along, with my ingenuity and illustrated my resourcefulness and bowed.

That was three days ago.

Locked in the master bedroom, I didn’t panic because I knew the trick. I used four different tools I had and a tweezer (because I have a mastery with that as well) – to no avail. Nothing I tried would budge the inner lever. After a dozen attempts, I gave up knowing my husband would be home within the hour and I’d be fucked in the Apocalyptic Armageddon.

I was on the last side of the final door panel when I shut myself in. I was starving, having skipped breakfast, thinking I’d feast on a hearty brunch as a reward for my early morning painting. My tummy churned and I yearned for the second cup of coffee I had promised myself upon completion!

What was I doing denying myself coffee? I could have sipped and painted! Lesson learned: never wait until the end of a project to reward yourself. I should have known that already as I’ve spent a lifetime preaching to my sister, “Never save your dessert for the end because you might choke in the middle of dinner and never get to it.”

My initial reaction was that of a prisoner of war, salivating, frustrated, focusing on the clock ticking loudly, “wasting” my time. “Watch TV,” my husband suggested, “or take a nap!” yells my daughter from the backseat (we’ve established I Don’t Nap Club). I had my phone; I could have played Blitz or got sucked into Twitter. I could have snuggled with the two of the three cats locked in with me. I could have could have … but I was so frustrated something stopped my flow ONCE AGAIN, just half a door panel shy of the finish line. 

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