(Hint: It’s not drinking a martini. That, I can do well.)
I can’t move heavy things.
My back goes out. I injured it when I was 30, on a Vespa with David, bouncing around the hills of San Francisco. The jostling hurt the curves of my spine. I liked the adventure of riding on the back of his pale blue bike, going through tunnels with the lights off. I liked the sex that made me flutter and gasp. We had fun. But it left a permanent imprint on my body. The rest of me bounced back.
I can’t put up shelves.
I am worthless with a hammer and nail. If I concentrate really hard, and slow myself down, at best, I can hang a small painting. But it takes me ten times longer than most people. And the work is sloppy even though I don’t want it to be. I can’t control the tools.
Certain jars are impossible for me to open.
Through trial and error, I’ve discovered that if I puncture a hole in the lid with a sharp tip, I’m able to open it. But then I have to weigh whether it’s worth spoiling the rest of the jar’s contents, like say, for one olive in my martini. That might be worth it.
About a year ago, I brought out some major artillery for a giant jug of vodka. For the life of me, I could not get that lid pried loose. And since I have trouble with these kinds of things to begin with, I assumed the difficulty was with me. This was a full, big bottle, and so a good example of my not wanting to spoil the entire contents just for one drink, but the task exacerbated my anxiety to such a degree that I considered it.
Then I remembered there was a liter of Maker’s Mark in the house that I had bought for a pecan pie recipe, so I withdrew the sharp objects and poured myself a Maker’s Mark on the rocks instead. The next time someone dropped by the house for a martini, I was relieved to learn that the problem opening the vodka bottle was due to a faulty lid, and had nothing to do with me, which was a relief, after all.