Alright. Who Locked This Door?!?!?!

“Mom, I can’t open the bathroom door,” my teen daughter nonchalantly informs me late one night.

“Oh for cripe’s sake.” I march to the door wondering at what point I turned into my own crabby mother. I once made the mistake of disciplining one of my children while standing in front of a mirror. There was my own mom, harping away. Wait a second. That’s me. Oh my gawd.

It’s true what they say, our children are our parents revenge. In fact, right after giving birth to my first child I called my mother not only to announce the news I’d just turned her into a grandma before she’d hit menopause but to apologize for the torturous experience of my own birth. She appreciated the sentiments, even if it was twenty one years after that hot July day in 1972 when I started screaming the moment only my head was delivered. She had to listen to my yelling for another twenty minutes while she labored to get the rest of me out of her.

(Sorry, Mom. What can I say? I’ve been emotional from the first second my lungs sucked air. Some things never change.)

I push on the bathroom door. Hmmm. I push harder. Throw a little shoulder into it this time. Nada. What the? What happened? Why the flip is this door locked? From the inside?

I interrogate my offspring. Of course, no one knows anything. I consider Chinese water torture but just surrender to the fact my kids may end up CIA agents someday the way they guard interrogating information. Gremlins apparently slunk their way into our neighborhood with the sole purpose of sabotaging our morning showers.

Fine. Whatever.

I live in an older character home and this particular door has a deadbolt that must be turned with some effort in order to secure the lock. How the hell the deadbolt ended up bolted is slightly mysterious. Hmmm, poltergeist? Who should I call? Locksmith or priest?

It’s pretty late by the time the mysterious bathroom ghost has pulled this prank so I decide not to call anyone and just tackle this baby myself before certifying my damsel in distress status. How hard can this be?

I find my toolbox in the basement, and yes, I own a toolbox. I assess the situation and settle on a needle nosed pliers. I can clearly see the back of the deadbolt through a small hole in the door. That’s gotta be it. One hour of grunting, groaning, slipping and sliding later, I am no further. (And yes, normally activities of this nature would fall into the fun things to do after midnight category, but not in this case.)

In this time all I’ve succeeded in doing so far is to remove the doorknob. That did nothing. Yes, I realize. But in a moment of desperation I decided to unscrew every screw I saw. Which was, I know, completely pointless.

Now my locked door has no doorknob. Yay.

At 1:00am I admit defeat and go to bed.

I have nightmares about having to spend the rest of my life showering at the truck stop down the road.

In the morning I make the damn call to the locksmith. He shows up. Takes one look at the door. Grabs MY tool and proceeds to do precisely what I’d spent hours the night before doing.

Four nanoseconds later he turns the bolt and unlocks the door.

Are you flipping kidding me?

I could have fixed this on my own? All I was missing was testosterone?

Fifty five dollars later I’m back in my bathroom and just irritated that I needed to call a man to do this. I was smart enough to figure out what needed to be done and how to do it. But in the end the only thing that inhibited my success was brute strength? Argh.

Well, that experience was a metaphor for a lot of things. There is something within all of us that tells us that if we can’t do something alone then we’re weak. Independence epitomizes success. That if we need help, we’ve failed.

I’ve had three friends call me this week because relationships have ended, and not all women either. One was a guy. But the feelings were all the same.

Hopefully, my shoulder and advice was helpful. I think it was, for they all thanked me for listening and sharing my wisdom.

I guess I just kind of hope that for them, I was their locksmith. I didn’t bring any special tools or new ideas. I just brought a little strength that I’ve picked up along the way.

And hopefully? Well, I hope my words were just the keys they needed.

To unlock a few doors of their own.
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No offense, Mom...you had your crabby moments but overall you were pretty fun! :-)