I thought the hydraulic hinge would save me...
escapades in the existential via a kitchen renovation
It was last summer, and my life wasn’t going as planned. I thought I’d have more figured out by now, but maybe I’d just been spending way too much time figuring and not enough doing (“bias towards action” as I’ve heard in AA meetings). Whenever life buries you in this species of malaise the best thing you can do is move, get out of your head and into your body. In my case, it was to renovate my kitchen. I’d read much of Buddhism, stoicism, and all the ancients, but they existed before recessed lights, 16-gauge steel sinks, and the hydraulic cabinet hinge. So they couldn’t possibly understand my motivation.
The renovation was a call to action. You see, I’m over-educated and what happens a lot with the over-educated is they privilege their brains over their bodies — or, rather, theory over doing and getting proximate with some kind of hands-on labor. There is something so wonderfully unique — almost vestigial — about building something. Building, we’re told, is supposed to be left to the professionals. We’ve siloed society in a way where few people who make an income besides the tradesperson know much at all about making or fixing things. Sure, we have Home Depot catering to accountants building birdhouses and sandboxes on the weekends, but really making something is left to the pros. In the olden days, people were more generalists, or so I read. Why? I blame capitalism and its efficiency-at-all costs edict. It’s inefficient to be a broker and a carpenter; it’s better to be hyper-specialized thus more productive. You will make more and churn out more widgets. It wasn’t uncommon even 40-50 years ago for someone to have near-expert knowledge across many domains.
So that’s how I ended up a duplex owner and barely being able to use a hammer the proper direction. Before this, any kind of knowledge felt “gatekept”, like something I could only learn from a mentor. So, I got a mentor, but via the most random way possible: my new girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend, who fast became a wonderful friend and teacher. I hired him and worked FOR him for over a year. I am forever grateful that he let me through that “fourth” wall.
But back to the hinges. They were at the end of a very long string of tasks that needed doing: knocking down walls, electrical, replacing sections of the floor, building cabinets and a countertop. In my mind they signified the end — I couldn’t wait to get there. And when I finished all that and routed out precision holes to sort of reverse-engineer the hardware placement for these hinges, I finally got one in. Closing it the first time — let me tell you — felt magical; it was buttery and seamless in its mechanical precision. And wanting more magic in my life, I used it several more times over the ensuing days, just to observe it — what a feat! It was done!
But soon enough, like all things, I had adapted. It was a hinge after all, despite it taking four seconds to very gently close. I installed the remaining hinges; the pleasure faded and this gave me a spot of sadness. And this is what I learned: renovations, car buys, new expensive toys are the land of hedonic adaptation. But what is much more unique about a process as difficult — mentally and physically — as a renovation is there is a journey involved. I had to remind myself of that. There is no thing that will make you complete. No person or place. Not even a hydraulic cabinet hinge. I knew all this before intellectually but it was a relief to be so absolutely confronted with it: here’s your new kitchen; do you feel any differently? Of course, I did feel differently. It was more comfortable, it gave me pleasure to see what I had done. But my interior life — anything I was struggling with — remained the same and that is the crux.
Someone asked me over the summer when my renovation would be done. I laughed a bit. Not at the question, per se, but what occurred to me at the prompt. Owning a home is Sisyphean — full stop. There is no end point; you have to love the journey. I once remarked that when you buy a house you’re basically extending your nervous system: every little crack, leak, decay will be like it’s upon your body. Not everyone is constitutionally equipped for this; I’m positively not sure I am either.