I bought this dining room set about eighteen years ago. It’s pine.
And it's roughly 72” long and however many inches wide, doesn’t
matter. But, I remember carefully picking it out at the furniture store.
“I have three children” I said to the salesman. “Three teenagers” I stressed. "I’m looking for something durable."
“No problem” he assured me. “This is the perfect table for a family with teenagers.”
Soon after I had that table delivered I realized… the bastard lied.
It’s not like I could have smacked the table with a blunt object on the salesroom floor to test out the durability aspect of it.
But I should have.
Because if you even look at this table sideways, a dent appears in the wood. And if you so much as think about pulling a chair up to it, a hole the size of the Grand Canyon will appear and wave at you in five different languages.
What exactly did this salesman not understand when I mentioned the
"three teenagers" who were living in my house?
Maybe I should have been more clear in my description of them;
“My GAWD man! There are three giant, axe wielding, crazed lunatics,
standing in my kitchen chewing on barbed wire, looking for a place
to sit down!”
Because, clearly this young man did not understand the gravity of the word teenager.
I screamed when I saw the first dent in my new table. It’s true.
“Damn it!” I cried. “WHO did THIS?”
Nobody.
I felt shock waves hit my brain with the force of a nuclear bomb when the
impression of an algebra problem appeared in the wood, clearly visible at
just the right angle, in just the right light.
“WHO did THIS?”
Again. Nobody.
A small part of me curled up and died when I realized all three of their names were etched, in one form or another as well as the month, day, year and subject matter of their school paper in the soft, soft wood atop that dining room table.
“It’s okay. No really, just kill me NOW!” I mumbled to myself.
Three teenagers. Hours of homework. Hundreds of meals, and thousands upon thousands of scratches on that dining room table. Forever. And ever.
At one point my OCD wanted to sand that table down and make it perfect again. But I wrestled that thought to the ground and killed it right then and there because there was no way in hell I would survive another axe wielding teenager marking up my perfect, perfect dining room table.
Absolutely. No. Way.
I learned when you have children, you have to expect disasters of this magnitude. They're all a part of the deal. Stains on the carpet, marks on the wall, missing dishes, broken lamps. And don't bother asking who did it. Because I can tell you right now... it was nobody. Full name: Nobody At All.
I'm going out this morning to buy two new phones for our house to replace
the old ones that are out dated and don't work so well anymore.
I'm talking myself off the ledge as I type this.
