The other day, I was elbow-deep in the guts of a leaky faucet, cursing under my breath. My hands, usually accustomed to typing, were a greasy mess. This, right here, is my bread and butter, my happy place, my therapy: I fix shit that’s what I do. It’s more than a job; it’s a deep satisfaction in making things work again. This old house, with its quirks and groans, demands constant attention. There is something profoundly satisfying about knowing how things tick, about understanding the mechanics of the world. Finding a solution, the way a problem just vanishes when I’m done.
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I remember when I was a kid, always pulling things apart. My parents weren’t thrilled about the dismantled radios and toasters scattered around, but I was fascinated by what made them work. That curiosity hasn’t faded. Now, instead of tiny circuits, it’s bigger stuff. The satisfaction of a well-soldered pipe, the perfectly aligned hinge on a creaky door, that’s what keeps me going. Sometimes it’s a quick fix, other times a struggle.