The color of infinity inside an empty glass

It's December Days time again. This year, I have decided that I'm going to talk about skills and applications thereof, if for no other reason than because I am prone to both the fixed mindset and the downplaying of any skills that I might have obtained as not "real" skills because they do not fit some form of ideal.

04: Repair

I tried very hard not to absorb any of the things my father was trying to teach me about tool use and how to approach problems in logical ways, and how I might understand things about electrical circuits and the ways that things were constructed (or deconstructed). Often because those learning experiences forced on me were at times where I wanted to do something else, or when I wanted something to be done, instead of learning all the process behind it and then having to do the thing anyway, and to work through all the problems that would inevitably crop up while I tried to do things. I would rather have been using my skills to solve game puzzles instead of having to help out with real-world ones. These were also supposed to be bonding exercises or other opportunities for father-child interaction outside of playing board or card games together, and in the way of most children, I was not necessarily interested in having my father interested in the same kinds of things I was getting interested in, especially the ones that I was studying on my own and that I knew he would neither approve of nor be interested in learning anything about to have discussions with. (This general rebellion was supplemented with actual knowledge and experience on these matters, so it wasn't just that I wanted my privacy, it was that I knew conversational attempts would be impossible regarding them.)

To my eternal annoyance, not only did I learn things from my father about tool usage, repair, and how to diagnose and approach problems, they turned out to be useful. Especially when I became the class of person designated "homeowner." Because now I had situations where a thing needed a screw tightened, or a fixture replaced, or a piece of wood cut, or objects hung, or holes drilled, and so forth. The tool kit that I bought for myself when I became an independent being with an apartment of their own has followed me everywhere I have gone since then, and while it's been supplemented by a small number of power tools over time to assist with specific tasks, like carving up things or more firmly ensuring the screws are put into the right places, I have at least managed not to invest in some kind of handyman cave of my own. Because I still don't like doing those various things, even if I know how to do them, and I will end up doing them because I know how to do them. And I did this throughout the relationship that hurt me, and beyond that time.

It's not that I dislike doing various projects, like pulling up carpet and the tack blocks under them, or destroying a closet so that the people building the moat can get to everywhere, or hanging rails, brackets, and shelves to make a very neat book storage space, so much as I dislike doing the work of the projects themselves, and there's always an annoyance factor in there because doing projects inevitably reveals that some other tidbit of information from my father did, in fact, lodge in my brain, and it is now useful to me at this point. "Thanks, Pops." That's the kind of thing that lets me understand when a particular wire is still hot, even though the power to that box is supposedly turned off, and how to carve up large-sized bits of debris into things that will actually fit in containers, and how to use lawnmowers and trimmers, and many things. If I were better at capitalism, I'd probably be paying other people to do some of the things that are annoying and necessary, but I'm still stacked several deep in the "these things are expensive and necessary, so they're being financed" department. At this rate, I doubt I will have a situation in my life where I'm not making payments on something. But that's for a different entry.

I've picked up a new skill this year. It's not something that I think I'm great at, but it is something that I'm getting practiced at. You see, one of the things I did treat myself with were socks in my size that have things like cats in sweaters, or red pandas, or the Duck Hunt birds and dog on them. I wear them to work and try to keep them cycled so that I'm only wearing one pair for one day a week, and then laundering them. Well, the first set I bought has begun starting to develop holes in them simply from the years of use that I've put on them, and rather than discard the socks and buy new ones, I got taught how to use my needle and thread and do some re-weaving of the socks in the places that had developed holes. (It's nice to have someone with expertise in the thing you are trying to learn to guide and make suggestions as things go along.) Many of the same principles apply to other pieces of cloth that need to be rejoined to each other, although so far, the technique that I've learned tends to produce puckering, scarring, or other parts on the clothes that are of a different texture than the original. The socks are still wearable, and reasonably reinforced from having been re-woven in the spots experiencing failure.

Knowledge stars being transferable to different scenarios after enough practice, and so, when my lunch pail of many years had one of the cloth pieces that were the grab points for the zipper break off, I repaired it with the needle and thread. It's shorter now for the repair, but it works just as well as it did when it was longer. I repaired a hole in a cloth case for an object that I still need to think about how to display it in a place of prominence. I did repair a shirt that had been cat-clawed, but after that was done, the suggestion was to get some embroidered patch or similar and cover the entire scar with the patch to make it artistic.

Practicing skills on broken, but mendable, objects is effective practice. After all, if it's already broken, the best thing that can happen to it is that it comes back to a repaired state. And the worst thing that can happen to it is that it stays broken, or that it becomes more broken, or that it breaks in new and exciting ways. The complete low-stakes-ness of it all once again allows me to sidestep the need to repair something to a perfect state. And it's not like anyone is going to be looking at the heels of my socks so they can critique my sewing technique. And if they are, one, we're in a situation where I've taken my shoes off, so hopefully these are people who can figure out how to offer useful suggestions rather than flat critiques, or two, someone has very much invaded my personal space to take my shoes off and complain about my socks. If it's good enough for me to wear, or to use, and I'm not actively making it worse, then it's a success. The secret to success at new things, when you are plagued with perfectionism, is to keep the expectations subterranean, so that accomplishing the thing at all is the only thing you're hoping for, and then to turn out to have done it well is a happy bonus. (Because the anxiety is always there that it's not perfect, but being able to use, wear, or otherwise demonstrate to yourself that the thing you repaired works fine can go a long way toward at least coming to a satisfaction about it.)

Like so many other things, if you ask me if I'm good at something, I'll probably tell you no, and this applies in the domains of tool use, repairing things, replacing things, handyperson matters, sewing or darning, and all the rest of the skills that I've picked up, practiced some, but haven't turned into a specialty or a professional grade of work. My amateur, hobbyist, script kiddie skills are that way because they're often just-in-time skills, or things where I've learned something for a specific purpose and not for anything else, and I don't expect that knowledge to be transferable to any other domain. (It often is.) And they stay usable because I haven't let the perfection weasels at them, or tried to make them a core part of my identity, to the point where something not coming out at a high grade of quality feels like a complete failure, even if it was a success. And so, there will be humility about the skill applied, even if it might seem like false humility or ducking a compliment (because taking a compliment means admitting to the possibility of skill, and admitting to the possibility of skill inevitably leads to attempting something that is beyond my skill and receiving criticism or ridicule for it.) This is maladaptive behavior, but you tell the child that the people making a big deal about having made a mistake are doing it for hostile reasons, yes, but this particular mistake will pale in comparison to blunders yet to come, and you'll manage to get through them, as well. Or a similar tack that is somehow supposed to help that child feel okay about making the mistake, even with all the people around them making a big deal out of it, and the young career professional feel any kind of confident that they will be able to continue in their pathway with a manager that seems incredibly poised to weaponize every mistake into a personal failing of "why can't you just?"

I'll wait. Possibly while practicing some of the repair skills I've had to pick up for my psyche, if there aren't any physical things that I want to or need to repair at that point.