Let There Be Light

March 2022

"Do I have to do everything around here?" I huffed to myself.

I live solo in an eleven-hundred-square-foot condo. No lawn upkeep, no snowplowing, no snow shoveling. My only responsibility is the space inside. A simple arrangement for a single, almost seventy-year-old woman.

But in early winter, three overhead lights in three rooms burnt out. It wasn't necessary to replace them immediately because all the fixtures had at least one other bulb. It bothered me a little, but not enough to get the stepladder and move the furniture to get to the fixtures.

A while later...

The kitchen ceiling bulb burnt out. The oven light popped. The under-the-microwave lights flickered and only sometimes lit and, just as capriciously, blinked out during meal prep. The lack of bright light accentuated the short winter days that were long on malaise.

But damn, I wasn't going to take care of those burnt-out bulbs. No sirree! I shouldn't have to do this. Where was the man who should be doing such things?

Of course, if anyone, especially a man, had intimated that I couldn't take care of this mundane task, I would have been greatly offended. It isn't that I can't do it. It's just that I find myself weary of taking care of Every. Little. Thing. Even if I do like things done my way.

I knew I was in the midst of a tantrum (life hadn't turned out as I wanted, even if it was good enough and sometimes better). Upon reflection, the tantrum was probably triggered by a visit with a friend who is happily enough married and who bragged about all the chores that her husband willingly took on, so she didn't have to worry her pretty little head about them. I alternately laughed at and flagellated myself.

"Face reality Susan! No one is going to knock at the door and offer to take care of this." Lash!

"No one is coming to rescue you!' Lash!

"Fantasy!" Lash!

One might think I grew up Catholic or something. Opus Dei has nothing on me.

I also knew that part of my stubborn refusal was because I had never researched lumens vs. watts and the right color spectrum to choose. A decade ago, when everyone else was transitioning to LED lights, I bought some closeout CFLs, reasoning that at twenty-five cents apiece and their low operating cost they would save money over buying the expensive LEDs. I stand by that decision, even with some CFL recycling fees. I just don't want (let me emphasize that) DON'T WANT to bother my pretty little brain and do the research.

"Don't want to adult, Susan?"

"Denying reality, Susan? Well, ain't that special?"

And then too, I knew that the oven light, the under-the-microwave lights and the kitchen ceiling light bulbs would all be different and possibly hard to track down in stores. A couple of years ago I had to replace a bulb in a little chandelier. It took me only five stores and two hours until I found the Holy Grail.

"Nope, not gonna do it!"

I retreated to the last fully lit room.

A couple of mornings later, I wrote my daily To Do List. The usual. Pay bills. Straighten the craft room. Make an appointment for the car. Think about what I'm going to compose for next week's writing group meeting. Hem a pair of pants. Edit a chapter of my memoir.

Light bulbs were nowhere mentioned.

My other self, the one who makes decisions without me, switched on the computer and researched LED recommendations. She lugged the stepladder the entire arduous twenty-five feet (that's sarcasm) from the hall closet to the kitchen and tried unscrewing the ceiling fixture glass shade. It seemed to be stripped because nothing happened, it just went around and around. She subdued her panic.

"We are smarter than this! Stupid light! You won't defeat me!"

Duh. Clips. Just pull it down. One bulb out. She taped it to a piece of paper and labeled it. Then she unscrewed the little door under the microwave to remove one of the bulbs and taped it next to the ceiling bulb. She thought, "Oven lights are all the same. No need to remove that until the new one arrives."

She searched Amazon, that evil marketplace from which I have vowed never to order, for the specialty bulbs required. She ordered stove lights and lightbulbs for lamps and for ceiling fixtures and microwaves, based upon the recommended soft white and either 450 or 800 lumens. Two hours and ninety dollars later, she had ordered what I needed and what will last me for the rest of my life.

The box arrived at my door in the promised two days. I wanted to ignore it, but that other Susan unpacked it and started to replace the under-the-microwave lights. However, she couldn't loosen the second bulb. She thought about using pliers, but it didn't seem like a good idea to use those on glass and there wasn't much room to use them in that little opening anyway.

"This isn't rocket science, Susan," she said aloud. "There are only five screws connecting the bottom panel of the microwave. Certainly, five screws can't defeat us!"

"Tee-hee! Just wait and see!" crowed a tiny, evil voice.

She removed the screws to drop the panel and managed to prevent them from disappearing in those black holes between counters and stove. She freed the stuck bulb. She inserted the new LEDs.

"Yay!" They both worked!

The panel hung by the electrical wires, and it was soon evident that she'd have to fashion a support so she wouldn't have to hold up the panel while trying to insert quarter-inch length screws into holes that didn't want to sync. A Jenga stack of books and boxes grew upward.

"Not rocket science! Not rocket science!" I heard her mutter between clenched teeth. Those screws didn't want to screw. Tears and recrimination and naughty words flowed freely.

It took her an hour and a half to screw in four of the five screws.

The fifth screw is safely ensconced in a little jar. The last holes didn't line up, even though theoretically they should have because the other screws are in. One of life's little mysteries.

"Progress, not perfection!" she intoned.

All GE oven lights are the same, right? Wrong. The old one was almost an inch longer than the new. With a sinking heart, she screwed in the new. We held our breaths as she pushed the "Oven Light" button - it worked!

Whew!

Then the piece de resistance, the ceiling light. Voila!

"Oh no!" With all the bright light we could see all the dirt and food splashes and grime we hadn't noticed for months.

The next morning, my To Do List had only one thing on it: edit a chapter of my memoir so it would be ready for writing group in a couple of days. It did not include any cleaning whatsoever. But that alternate Susan picked up a cloth and bucket and proceeded to wipe out drawers, wash cabinet doors, clean the fan blades, and wash and shine the window. She handwashed all the dishes because evidently the dishwasher hadn't been doing a good job. She cleaned the dishwasher and experimented with a new concoction on the oven window to remove pesky spots. She polished the silver-plated flatware. She removed all of the refrigerator door bins and jettisoned questionable commodities. She set up a new system for spices. She decluttered and rearranged. Five and a half hours later she let me eat breakfast.

I hope that all this cleaning and taking care of business means I'm coming out of my late-winter-but-spring-is-nowhere-to-be-seen funk. That would be a relief. I sigh in satisfaction and anticipation.

But.

A little voice niggles me.

"Ha! You know yourself Susan. Face it, you don't want to admit the sinister explanation for this cleaning frenzy! Based upon experience, YOU ARE PRO-CRAST-A-CLEANING!"

"What?? Me?? About what might I be procrastinating?" I ask indignantly.

And...the light bulb moment...

"Oh. Could it be the BOOK I'm supposed to be writing?"

Huh! Where is THAT responsible Susan when I need her?