Little versus Big

Did I tell you about my garage door? Did I tell you about this beau I have who is, I think, the nicest, most thoughtful man I've ever met? Let me tell you the tale of the juxtaposition of door and beau.

I have a three-car garage that is detached from the house. I don't know in what year the garage was built, but the house was built in 1927. If it's any indication of the state of automobiles when the garage was built, the three doors are rather narrow. I have to carefully watch both side sport mirrors when pulling in and out of the garage. I'm pretty sure the driver of a big Sport Ute would have difficulty getting into that garage.

At some point in its life, the middle garage door received the gift of an electric opener. And one remote control for the opener. There was also a button in the garage to operate the opener, but that button was positioned next to a side door that opened to a two-foot square of bricks and a lot of overgrown brush. I don't carry that door key with me, as I never use it.

I have programmed the hands-free device in the Acura to open the door, but to close the door I have to go inside the house and push the button on the remote. Let me elaborate: I have to get all my bags and packages and my travel mug out of the car; walk up the three steps to my back porch, sometimes over snow or ice; find where I put the house keys while I was retrieving everything from the car; unlock the door; either find a spare hand or quickly drop everything on the kitchen counter while sidestepping two hungry cats to disarm the security system; then and only then find the remote where I've tucked it behind a flower pot so the cats won't step on it and open the garage door during the day while I'm at work; and push the button to close the door. Then, if I'm unsure whether it closed or not, I walk into the powder room and peek out the window to see if the door is open or closed. Really. I am not making this up.

Remember that I am post-menopausal and have a faulty memory system. So, on many, many nights, when I arrive home, by the time I get the security system disarmed, I have totally forgotten about the garage door. A number of nights I've woken up at 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning to wonder if the door is open or closed. I walk to the landing on the second floor, look out and see it open, then go to the kitchen to find the remote and close the door. And worry the rest of the night about whether my lawnmower will still be in the garage in the morning. To say it's a disruption of my sleep would be an understatement. To say it's a major pain in my ass would be more accurate.

The Jazzman looked at my little Garage Door Ballet and said to himself, "I can fix that." Well, I think he really said, "I wonder how many points I can get with this woman if I fix that problem." He walked into the garage, looked to see where the button was, then followed, with his eyes, the electrical wire from the button back to the garage door opener motor. And knew he could fix it.

But let's not underestimate his desire to increase his asset account in my eyes. He moved my car from the garage. Then he swept the garage, as he doesn't like working in a dirty environment. Then he did a few tests to determine the best placement for the button. Then he brushed off the wood beside the garage door where he wanted to install the button. Then, if that weren't enough, he went to the basement and found some white paint to put on the wood, so that when I'm trying to find the button after gathering all my possessions from the car, it's situated on a white background and, therefore, easy to find. Then he installed the button on the newly-painted white wood, and drove my car back into the garage.

You think that's all? No. Before driving the car back into the garage, he ran some tests with the car to determine the best placement for parking it, and placed a scrap piece of 2"x4"x3' on the floor so the tire would stop when I was far enough into the garage to allow the door to close.

Really.

Do you think, since I moved in here a year ago, I have once swept the garage? No. Do you think I even once thought about the possibility of moving the button? Hell, no. I didn't even know there was a button for the first six months I lived here. It was only after the remote was lost and I couldn't park in the garage because I couldn't close the door that I noticed the button. (Notice the passive voice in that sentence? We won't tell that story, will we, Brad? That's our dirty little secret.)

This man, with a lot of thought and a moderate amount of effort, has improved my sleep and taken one major stressor out of my life. (I have more stressors, but most of those are outside of his span of control.)

It was a little thing to him, but big*Big*BIG to me.

And now, when I get home from work every night, anywhere between 7:00 p.m. and 11:30 p.m., I reach up to push the button. And I think of him.

Not only is he nice and thoughtful (and cuuute), he's pretty darned clever!