Two-by-fours, four-by-fours, two-by-sixes: Lumber lies strewn across my backyard like giant pick-up sticks. I stand stripped to the waist, slick with sweat and sunscreen, in the center of this jumble. I stoop to pick up a piece of two-by-four, and for an instant I wonder if a neighbor, peering out from a kitchen or bedroom window at this moment, might see a competent, assured man – a builder of structures – standing where I stand.
Thoughts like this come to me unbidden these days, but I know what’s happening and so does my wife. Despite the thousand-dollars' worth of new power tools, Jane thinks what I’m going through is cute. At least, she says, smiling, it’s not a thousand dollars in unexplained motel bills. And I respond, saying that maybe in five years, give or take, we can share a few guffaws over the hot flashes, the desperate urge for a boob lift. I’m sure her angst will be equally cute.
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