Benched

"Do you want to go and build a bench with me?" Brad asked. I blinked at him and sighed. Now I know how Elsa felt. "Sure, I'm willing to build a bench with you," I answered. Brad frowned. "That's not what I asked," my husband persisted. I closed out the Youtube video I was watching to address this situation head-on. "When, in our over-thirty years of marriage," I pointed out, "have I EVER wanted to build a bench? I am willing to build a bench." Apparently, my not immediately turning somersaults and breaking out into cheerful song with cartoon animal accompaniment caused my husband to doubt my passionate desire to spend hours whittling wood into workable furniture. 

When Saturday arrived, I summoned the necessary enthusiasm to demand that he take me with him to build a bench. Describing the project to me, he used a lot of familiar vocabulary that I have grown to view as trigger words. "We'll just pop this together,"  "This should be pretty easy," and "Zip-zip" are three phrases that warn me that I should have packed snacks, a book, alcohol, and a sleeping bag and have a marriage counselor's number on speed-dial. 

Being Brad Mosiman's right-hand helper isn't all that hard but it can be tricky. Timing and intuition are a must. He mumbles to himself so you can mostly tune out BUT you must be subliminally aware of numbers. "What was that measurement again?" he'll suddenly say. I'll admit it. I've made up figures with the desperate flair of an Atlantic City Strip magician. "Is this your card? What about this? Is it, at least, the right suit?" My brain about exploded when he asked me what half of 3 3/8 was. 

Brad thoughtfully explained each step of the process to me but the combination of my utter disinterest along with my inability to visualize what he was actually talking about had me foolishly hoping that each step that we were on might be "the last step." Amy Mosiman...you naive ninny. 

I watched my husband sit on an imaginary bench with the clinical detachment of a bank teller watching a client approach with a jug filled with nickels and pennies. What was happening in front of my very eyes was part of my job but it was not going to be especially fun. 

My main duties consisted around keeping track of my husband's constantly disappearing pencil, standing where Brad wanted me to stand ("Here?" "No. There."), lifting things wrong ("Is that good?" It never was. It was either higher or lower), dodging metal as it rocketed from Brad's sparking blade as he cut off a wooden ledge ridden with nails, miscalculating every figure he gave me, handing him nails the wrong way, and telling him that everything looked good only to have him pull it apart and do it again. I was, obviously, essential to this project.

My self-imposed duty was Morale Officer. "Whaa-aa-aaahh-a!" I sang cheerfully. Crammed under the bench, drilling boards together (My job was to sit on them...finally...a position that showcases my talent!), my husband ignored me. Undeterred, I continued to sing accompaniment. "Whaa-aa-aaahh-a!" After approximately twenty unrelenting choruses, Brad interrupted his work to pleasantly and politely ask me what the heck I was doing. "I'm trying to remember the Led Zeppelin song intro that your drill keeps playing," I told him. He frowned before saying, "It's Immigrant Song," before ducking under to resume his task. "Whaa-aa-aaahh-a!"

Six hours later, it was done. "Worth every minute," I said loudly, so as to be heard over the growling of my stomach. "It seems pretty high," Brad remarked glumly. I looked at him in alarm. Glum was NOT good for me. We sat on his bench, our little legs swinging like a pair of toddlers in highchairs. In a rare moment of self-restraint, I refrained from reminding Brad of the SNL sketch featuring Lily Tomlin as little Edith Ann in her big chair. I suppressed an immature giggle to reassure my husband who was now  muttering something about how "If Ben wanted a carpenter, he should have hired Jesus." "It's the perfect height for a filet station," I said, trying to distract my husband by reminding him of his love of fishing. "People could park a chair in front of it and use it as a desk!" I went on, describing the multi-functionality of Brad's unique creation. "We could drop a knotted rope from the ceiling so that children could easily access your bench. They'd love it! What an adventure!" Brad had stopped talking by this time. We were in trouble. Frantic, I Google-researched bench heights. "Standard bench heights range between 18 and 20 inches high. "We're pretty close. Besides, who wants to be considered standard?"

One sleepless night later (Not me...I slept like a baby in an over-sized crib), we were back on the road to "Pop these off...and zip-zip...we'll be outta there. Should be pretty easy. Hey, have you seen my pencil?" Although not athletic by nature, I feel a sports analogy to be a pretty apt ending to this little lesson of woe. When it comes to woodworking projects with my husband, I would rather ride the pines than build the bench.