What’s the worst that could happen?

I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but I am almost fifty and I’ve never put together furniture or used power tools for a project. 
Sure, I’ve “assisted” my Dad or a guy with things, which mostly meant holding the screws or trying to read the directions, which–let’s face it–are pretty awful and most guys don’t even use them.

As a result, I tend to avoid items that say “some assembly required” or, if I get them, I wait until I can find someone to help me put them together. This was normal to me; I understand if you might find this weird, but it was how I was brought up and I still struggle with it.

My sister said something to me recently that really stuck with me. She said: “What’s the worst that could happen?” It’s an ordinary saying, but I really thought about it and took it to it’s ultimate possibility.  

Seriously…what is the WORST possible thing that could happen if I tried to do (fill in the blank). Would I harm myself? Or kill someone? Would I be maimed for life?  

So, yesterday, I decided to test my sister’s advice and finally put together a desk I purchased for Master Owen about five months ago. Yes, for nearly half a year, this giant box sat in my den, un-assembled, because I was afraid to take a chance on putting it together! It’s pathetic, I know.

But I was determined yesterday…I was going to make it happen.  About halfway through the assembly, Master Owen came along and asked me if I needed any help.  I imagine he was pretty perplexed seeing his Mum using a screwdriver!  I invited him to help and we both worked on it together.  

At one point, I read the instructions wrong (surprise!) and had to undo a section.  I thought: “Is this the worse thing that could happen?”  A little while later, while I struggled with putting brackets up, MO suggested that we call (the former BF) and I thought: “Surely THAT would be the worst that could happen!”  Meaning, in essence, admitting that a college-educated woman needed a man to assemble a simple piece of furniture.  Well. I wasn’t going to let that happen!  So I pressed on.

Eventually Master Owen and I finished the job.  I looked at him and said: “Can you believe it?  And no one got angry. No one burst out in profanity. And it’s actually perfect!”

Master Owen, a young man of few words and even fewer compliments, then showed me what the BEST thing that could happen…he simply said: “Thanks, Mum.  You’re the best!”

And, yes, my heart nearly exploded with pride and love.