At my age, which is not old but I can see it from here, the things I can’t do seem to be gaining ground. Mostly that seems to be limited to things I need expert help for, but I’m worried the day is coming when it will be “regular” stuff, too.

For example, I can still manage to hook up a camper and drive it a few thousand miles, but I had to call for “real” help when the black tank cracked. I can mow my own yard and mulch the leaves- when I can pull the cord with enough strength to start the engine. I can paint a wall but what used to take a day now takes a few days. And I’ve been ordered by friends and family alike to stay off of ladders. It’s frustrating to have to admit to myself that I am not as independent as I’d like to think I am.

Today I tried something that should have been relatively easy, quick, and painless. I bought a new toilet seat that will give me a rise of about 2″ when sitting; not much, but I won’t have to plop down, and getting up should be easier on the knees. It’s not really for me, it’s for a friend (and friends like her) who recently found herself in the embarrassing situation of not being able to get up from the throne by herself, at someone else’s house for an evening, and she had locked the bathroom door, so calling for help was not the first thing she thought of. Fortunately, after what seemed like a long enough time for the others waiting to give her a ride home, she was able to engage her core enough to stand and lean on the sink for leverage. But I have lived in a house that had the higher commodes, and admittedly, they were useful for me even back then.

So today was the day I tried to put it on. First, you have take off the current seat. Which has probably been in place for 20 years. No kidding. One side loosened up quite nicely. The other did not loosen. At all. The side against the wall, naturally. I hunted down a pliers and eventually a wrench when finger-turning produced no results except a scraped knuckle. Interestingly though, between me trying to loosen this bolt and fitting between the commode and the wall, I jiggled the toilet enough that the water line started leaking. By leaking, I mean spraying water everywhere. Onto the wood floor. I extricated myself from the small space I was in, on my side, then to my knees, to get up and get a bowl from the kitchen to catch the water. I tried to turn off the water supply, but that knob was also on so tight I couldn’t get it to budget without a few cuss words. And even so, it continued to drip. A lot. I got a bigger bowl.

By now, I have emptied the bowl three times, and it probably needs it again. I just do not have the strength or dexterity or leverage to tighten anything under there. I am wavering between being royally ticked off and frustrated, and being deeply saddened by the fact that I am almost old.

I called a neighbor who I have shared names with for electricians, painters, handymen, etc. I have names of two plumbers from her, one with an * by it, but I don’t know if that means “good” or “bad.” She said it was good, so I called him. Wouldn’t you know, it’s still holiday season, and he’s out of state. He referred me to someone else, and I left a message but no return call after a half hour. I look out on my street and there don’t seem to be any cars belonging to capable strong people who could help me out.

So I called my “handyman” guy, who isn’t really a handyman; he’s a carpenter. He tiled my bathroom shower, laid flooring in the hallway, installed new patio doors, and attached an antique fireplace mantle to a wall for me. I asked him for a referral to a plumber or true handyman, but when I told him I had water dripping, he said he would stop by himself and see what he could do. He’s at another job, so it will be a few minutes. And now I understand why tradespeople/subcontractors sometimes take longer than you think is necessary to get a job done. They take calls from stressed out people like me. And come to their aid.

In years past, I have painted rooms, moved plenty of furniture, planted and transplanted bushes and flowers, put together a crappy metal shed, laid both brick and flagstone sidewalks, replaced a garbage disposal, rewired lamps, put together furniture that came packed in a box, cleaned out gutters, dug holes using a post hole digger, replaced a toilet wax ring, and put a deadbolt lock on a door. I own tools that aren’t just screwdrivers; I have a multi-purpose tool, an air compressor, a sander, a saw or three, a sledgehammer, and a cordless drill, among others. I know how to use them all, some better than others. Turning a damn threaded nut on a bolt should not be a big deal.

It’s time like these that make a woman like me think twice about having a man around on a regular basis. Luckily, I can still just buy their time when I have an emergency. Because any man I might be interested in might also not have the physical strength that I don’t have, nor the necessary agility or dexterity or stability required.

The good news is that things like this have happened often enough in the past couple of years that I don’t always cry as my first response to the frustration of times like these. Now, I have to go empty the bowl again.