Drywall, and Other Miseries of Marriage

How strong is your bond? To find out, take on a DIY project with your significant other

Photo by Roselyn Tirado on Unsplash

In my previous post, I discussed a Tik Tok trend called Home Depot Dating, in which women feign helplessness at the hardware store in hopes of meeting their future boyfriend. Good? Bad? I’ll let you decide.

In the meantime, let’s imagine that this happy hardware scenario leads to a fairy-tale romance. WATCH OUT! This shared interest in home improvement is bound to jeopardize their relationship down the road. Take it from me.

My husband—for now, let’s call him Chuck (because that’s actually his name)—asked for my help in converting unfinished attic crawl space into storage for seasonal clothes, suitcases, and poor purchase decisions that neither of us was willing to acknowledge. The project involved a little framing, a little sheetrock, spackle and paint. Easy peasy.

The crawl space was incredibly tight for two people, and the attic itself was hot and dusty. The only relief from the heat were the ICY DAGGERS that shot from my eyes every time Chuck told me to give him more elbow room. A low ceiling and irregular angles made for difficult cuts in the sheetrock, and Chuck had to make multiple attempts to get the drywall in the right trapezoid shape, leading to more ICY DAGGERS.

Once the drywall cuts were right, Chuck asked me to hold the piece against the studs while he screwed it in place. It turns out that the best way to do this was for me to get on my knees and hold the sheetrock in place with my back. That way, my arms/hands wouldn’t be in the way while Chuck screwed the drywall in place. Not one to rush, Chuck painstakingly identified the optimal screw-placement points, indicating each one with a barely detectable pencil mark.

In Chuck’s defense, the workspace was tight, the lighting wasn’t ideal and he had zero experience hanging drywall. So I cut him some slack when one of the drywall screws inadvertently fell down the back of my shirt as Chuck searched for an invisible pencil mark. Later, however, it happened again. But this time, the drywall screw fell down the front of my shirt. The ICY DAGGERS remained sheathed.

Instead, I went absolutely bananas.

I really don’t remember what I said, and happily, Chuck doesn’t either. Maybe it’s like how trauma victims wipe their memories clean as a survival mechanism. But here’s the important part: I remained in place, with my shoulders and spine holding up the drywall. And Chuck kept working throughout my screed—and together we finished the project.

I learned a valuable lesson that day. And, as a public service, I would like to pass that wisdom along to you:

Never wear a bra when hanging drywall. Because when a screw lands inside your bra, there’s significant chafing whenever you move.

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