Hanging My Cross

Last week, my parents drove up to help me with my second-to-last major home repair. On the day before they came, I looked at the mess on my dining room table and groaned at the thought of my mother seeing it in such condition. So, I did what must be done. I set my mind to put away the mess.

There I stood in front of the table, considering what to do with everything, and I determined that it was time to stand on my step-stool and finally hang that crucifix I bought in Guatemala during the cruise I had taken for my fifteenth wedding anniversary. (This is the same cruise mentioned in my premier book, The Disposable Noble Wife.)

Now, standing on stools is difficult for me because of my equilibrium issues. But I got out my tape measure, a picture hanger hook and my hammer, and I defied reason by climbing up on the step-stool anyway. The worst that would happen is my parents would find me with a broken neck the next day. Right? But at least I would get found trying to straighten my house.

First, I measured the door: 3.0 feet. Then I divided 3.0 in half: 1.5. Then I climbed up on the step stool with the tape measure, my picture hook and my hammer in hand. I measured out 15 inches and hammered in the tiny nail on the hook. I came off the stool and hung up my crucifix, then stepped back to admire my handiwork.

Note to self: Half of 3.0 feet is 1.5 feet, AKA 18 inches (not 15 inches).

Now the question becomes would I rather spend the effort to center the crucifix or would I rather have an excuse to tell people the story of why it is not centered?