I have to get a new garage door. (I backed into it several years ago causing a series of unfortunate problems. Nice.) The repairman came by this morning, took a look and declared the current door hopeless. He showed me a brochure and some door colors and said "You can wait and talk it over with your husband."
I threw my shoulders back and with all the feminist pride I could muster, I said "There is no husband. I will be making this decision myself." Making car-related, house-related, things-I-don't-know-much-about-related decisions can be hard as a single woman but also can be empowering.
I am a woman who picked out, negotiated the price and bought my last car; drags her own branches down to the curb and pays all the bills. I can most certainly order myself a new garage door. I can decide how many windows it will have and what the color should be. I have no one I have to ask; I'll make that door almond butter, deep brown or white ice -- whatever color I please. Ha. I do not need a man to take care of me!
(All right. Here's the truth. Here's how this whole I-need-to-get-my-garage-door-fixed thing started. Once the door really quit working, who did I call? A man. My roofer who takes care of his clients. My roofer who replaced not only my house roof last year but also the damaged roof on my little red shed. My roofer who let me pay out what I owe him in very small payments.
My roofer called the garage door company that he uses, arranged for the service man to come over, came over himself to inspect the garage, and told the garage company to bill HIM so that I could just add it to my tab and continue to make small payments. Truth is, it's nice to be taken care of.
And, who did I call about paying for this extra expense? One of my favorite men - my dad.)
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