It should be such a simple thing. I’m not inept around the house. I have my own tools, and did a lot of the work here at DIY Palace. The point is not that I can’t change a lightbulb, but that it’s way more of an arse-pain than it has to be.
Even with my (lack of) height, I can usually just stand on a stool and be done with it. But the unrenovated rooms still have 9-foot ceilings, and a household stepstool just won’t put me high enough to get leverage to take off the fixtures. So out comes the dreaded ladder. I have a bad history with ladders. Just dragging it up the rickety, narrow cellar stairs is no picnic, and I always feel unsteady above the second rung.
Why not jusk ask my husband? He’s considerate by nature, and at his height, 9-foot ceilings are no big deal. (He’s so bored by "How tall are you?" that he wants to start giving the answer in cubits or hands.) But I don’t want him to do it. It’s more than not wanting to bother him when he’s postcall or just plain tired. It’s about keeping my independence. I don’t want to give in to joint pain, and I hate feeling thwarted or helpless. So sheer bloody-mindedness leaves me twitching like Chief Inspector Dreyfus and muttering "It’s just a damn bulb! Why is this such a pain in the arse? Why am I so damn short? This house is falling apart, blah blah blah."
But it beats sitting in the dark.