Monday Night Narrative

Tonight I decided to set up the pull-up bar I’d purchased last week at Sports Basement.  I intended to have myself a little bedroom workout, and I set right to it upon returning home.  I opened the box a bit skeptically, noticing the packing tape that indicated the item had been repackaged, and resold.  Inside were the four simple pieces of the apparatus, a folded diagram, and a small clear bag of hardware.  I unfolded the instructions first, examined the pieces, and planned my attack.  Four parts, four bolts, four nuts, and I’d be on my way to a ripped upper body.  I opened the little bag of hardware.  Inside were three bolts and four nuts.

I almost went nuts.  How freaking stupid do you have to be to leave out a bolt?  It’s not like some IKEA entertainment center with 67 pieces and an eight-page set of instructions.  3 out of 4 bolts?  Are you freaking serious?  I thought about returning the damn thing but how I didn’t want to get in the freaking car right now and drive down to Sports Basement, and how the damn thing would probably just sit in the corner of my room, or at best the trunk of my car, for like 2 weeks before I finally returned it for my measly $28.  I should get a refund and a replacement.  This was a colossal disappointment, a huge hassle, and boy was I going to make the cashier at Sports Basement feel real stupid when I opened the box and showed him the glaring absence of one of the 12 necessary pieces.

I tried to calm myself down.  This was a test.  I was tired, this was just a silly little incident thrown in my path, it was nothing.  It was a chance for me to demonstrate my self-control, my mastery of the moment, my ability to roll with the punches, find the humor in everything, and not be affected by triviality.  I threw the parts together and closed the box, and on the back...

The bolt.  Hello.  Scotch-taped their like some alien parasite clung the missing bolt to the back of the box.  Oh my goodness, now isn’t that funny?  Here I was getting all worked up, planning my tirade at the sports basement counter, deep-breathing to control my rage, and the little bolt was here all along.  I smiled, re-opened the box, laid out the parts once again, and set to fastening the first bolt to its nut.

The nut was too small.  I could screw it a couple of turns until the tighter end met the tip of the bolt, and no further could I go.  Who is the idiot who put this piece of shit together?  Is it so hard to grab the right freaking nuts for the job?  Again, we’re dealing with FOUR IDENTICAL BOLTS here people.  This isn’t hard.  What the hell am I supposed to do with these stupid little nuts?  I stomped off towards the tool closet, determined to muscle the damn things on there any way I could.  I was getting hungry, I could feel a twinge in my right hammy and I thought about how I was supposed to be stretching by now, and how I really just wanted to lie down and see what’s on ESPN3.

Well thanks to my ingenuity, a pair of pliers, and a screwdriver, I was able to work the bolts through the nuts.  These tools were definitely not included in the instructions, but as the pieces came together I gradually began to feel better about things, and get excited about doing some pull-ups.

What an up-and-down little incident!  From frustrated to relieved to frustrated and back to relieved, this was certainly a trying process, and an interesting one to observe.  I gave the final bolt its final turn, and hefted the completed apparatus.  Sturdy, simple, awesome.  I could practically feel the muscle bulging in my back.  I turned to my doorway and hooked the curved end under the doorjamb.  It didn’t grab.  I wiggled it a bit, turned around, came at it from the outside in, hooked it under again, but no luck.  The molding on my door was too high.  I freaked.  In 30 seconds I toured the entire apartment, frantically hooking the little rubber stubs up and under each doorway, grasping for purchase, and finding none.  There is nowhere in this ENTIRE apartment to hang this freaking piece of shit pull-up bar.  I stormed back to my room, briefly considered hurling the bar through my window, decided on my bed instead, and threw it down with disgust.  I stood there shaking my head, thinking of the half-hour I’d just wasted, the weekend to-do list undone on my desk, the massive pimple that was throbbing beside my nose, my fatigue and my sore hammy.

Somehow I managed to go on with my life.  I unrolled my yoga mat, cracked the window, and began a sun salutation.  Then I used the bar for some push-ups at the end of my routine, and tweaked my left shoulder.