Dec 12, 2017 4 min read

For most of the past decade, I have stuck to a hard-and-fast rule where my husband is concerned. I have refused to learn how to do anything.

Let me explain. When we first got together, I was really inclined to learn to operate equipment, run machinery, fix things around the house – you name it, I wanted involved. My husband thought it was so cute that I wanted him to teach me. Then occasionally, I would endeavor to attempt repairs when he was too busy to get around to something.

As the years went along, things began to become my responsibility. I became a partner in the effort instead of just the cute assistant. Suddenly, I was tetting and raking hay every time we cut some down. I was the one who mowed the grass at home every week. I repaired the plumbing when it sprung a leak.

Don’t get me wrong; my husband doesn’t sit around watching me work while eating bonbons from the couch. He is working on numerous other things and just leaves the things I can handle for last. But at some point, I decided that I was able to “handle” enough and that I just wasn’t going to learn anything else new.

It worked for a while, but somewhere along the line, I began to doubt my abilities to do things. I began to get fearful when driving the tractor. I began to question whether the rototiller was too heavy for me to maneuver. I began to wonder whether I was crimping the fence together properly.

This weekend, my sister and I were working at my dad’s house, repairing some laminate flooring. My husband asked me if we would be interested in laying some ceramic tile. I told him I was not confident in my ability to do it correctly, but my sister immediately said she was game.

I was impressed and emboldened by her willingness to learn the new skills, and so I said I would try to help her. My husband set us up with the tools, with the pattern, and handled cutting the tile, but we mixed our own mortar and spread it ourselves. It took a few tiles to get the hang of how much mortar to use, what angle to hold the trowel to allow the teeth to make the proper grooves, and how to place the tile pucks to get the spacing correct.

Soon enough, we were in a groove and my husband left us to it while he made some other repairs. We did the better part of the floor in a couple hours and it looks pretty darn good, if I do say it myself. We were all puffed up about our abilities and joked about how we were going to quit our day jobs and flip houses full time.

But a mere couple hours later, the stiffness began to set in. (It was faster in my body than it was for the tile.) My wrist, where I was apparently leaning all my weight, my arms, from stirring several batches of mortar, and my lower back and rear, from bending and stretching, all were crying out for me to stay in retail.

My sister agreed with the decision, and my husband solidified it. He told me there is more ceramic to be laid and since we did so well, he is putting it on our list. Maybe I’ll be excited once I can lift my arms over my head again, but it has crossed my mind that I should have just followed my rule.