When the Hammer Has Its Say

Ever hit your thumb with a hammer, then drop the hammer on your foot? If not, congratulations, you are either a saint, a professional carpenter, or one of those people who hire someone else to hang a picture frame. But for the rest of us, let me tell you, some days, the supply of available curse words is insufficient to meet the demand.

It happened to me the other morning. I was minding my own business, trying to be helpful around the house.

My wife, Mary, had been dropping subtle hints that the new towel rack in the bathroom might look less decorative and more functional if it were actually attached to the wall. Fair enough.

Armed with my trusty hammer, I set out to prove that I was still the man of the house, the master of tools, the descendant of rugged pioneers who built their own barns with little more than grit and a bad back. I lined up the nail, took aim, and swung.

That’s when the hammer decided it had other plans. Instead of striking the nail, it performed a detour worthy of a drunken pigeon and landed squarely on my left thumb.

Now, I am not a man who uses foul language lightly. But in that moment, I discovered that the human brain can string together a dozen curse words in seven different languages without ever having studied them.

Unfortunately, my creativity was cut short by gravity. You see, the hammer slipped from my hand, and because my foot was standing loyally by to support me in my hour of need, it bore the brunt of my failure.

Thumb throbbing, foot screaming, pride shattered, I stood there like some tragic figure in a slapstick play, waiting for the audience to laugh. Mary peeked into the bathroom and raised an eyebrow.

“Need some help, Hercules?” she asked.

Now, that’s love. Not the kind they write in poetry books, mind you, but the everyday, roll-your-eyes, try-not-to-laugh-while-he’s-in-pain sort of love.

As I hopped around, trying to decide whether to cradle my thumb or my foot, I realized life is full of hammer moments. You line things up, aim carefully, swing with the best of intentions, and then, whack, life smashes your thumb and drops a little extra on your foot for good measure.

The natural response is to curse, shout, maybe invent new words that would make even sailors blush. But after the sting fades, you’ve got to laugh, because if you don’t, life will hand you another hammer.

I finally managed to attach that towel rack. It wobbles a little, like it’s reconsidering its career choices, but it’s there.

Every time I hang a towel on it, I get reminded that being human is mostly about fumbling, stumbling, and still finding ways to get the job done, even if it looks like a raccoon with a caffeine problem did it.

Here’s the thing: hammers don’t care about your pride. Nails don’t care about your plans. Feet don’t care about gravity until they’ve had a date with cold steel. But the people who love us, well, they care enough to bring you an ice pack, tease you mercilessly, and then hang the picture frame themselves when you’ve given up.

And maybe that’s the lesson. The world is never short on hammers waiting to teach you humility. But if you can meet those moments with a grin, a muttered curse, and a towel rack that more or less holds towels, you’re doing all right.

Besides, it could have been worse. I could’ve hit my head, and let me tell you, I’m running low on curse words as it is.