Horizontal.
Vertical.
45-Degree.
The bubbles suspended in yellow-green-tinted ethanol or oil in tiny vials on “analog” levels.
I remember playing with my grandpa’s level when I was a kid. It was nearly as tall as I was. I found the bubbles fascinating. After he showed me how to use it, I proudly told him and Grandma all the things that were, indeed, not level.
Countertops weren’t quite horizontal.
Table legs were a hair off vertical.
And wall art? Forget it.
Most things, as it turned out.
Most things are not level at all, but close enough to get the job done.
I couldn’t find a thing in my little world to use the 45-degree diagonal for. (I googled it just now, of course, and I doubt I had any knee braces in pergolas or conduit to test for Grandpa back then.)
On occasions when I would rib Grandpa about his carpentry skills, he’d stretch out his arm in front of him with his thumb sticking up to the ceiling (which was likely also not level), close one eye and say, “'Cause sometimes you just eyeball it.”
We’ve entered a life roll season, and as I write this, a line a friend tossed out to me the other day has been running through my head: “Things will level out.”
I noted the bubble busted, and I can’t find “level.”
“Well, there are three bubbles.” Always the optimist, this one.
I examine my imaginary Level of Life. Hold it in my hand and twist it around. It’s as tall as a kindergartener. Yellow metal casing. Hefty. But leaking.
“Two of my bubbles have burst.” That 45-degree one. And I’m not planning to build pergolas or bend conduit. At least not this week.
My brain is in overdrive and might be smoking a bit. This is the last post for January—another placeholder.
As I write this, I’m away. A winter storm is coming. Not sure if I’ll beat it back to home base or ride it in the hotel with a hundred soon-to-be close strangers. I have… ten hours to get the piece of news that will determine the fate of the weekend.
The next season of life will be… interesting. Nothing has been level. Everything is diagonal at best, putting undue strain on my last remaining bubble.
The hotel lobby fills and empties with guests. A group of mothers and teen girls with glitzy hair and sweats. Dance competition down the road, turns out. Utility workers. A couple of older folks, the women nagging the men about sodium intake. Brave ones do battle with the wonky waffle irons. A few faces I remember from the day before. And the day before that.
Some stare out at the snowflake-free dawn and fidget. Their Levels of Life aren’t going to change the uncontrollable, and they likely have all three bubbles intact.
I sigh at my imaginary level leaning against the table next to me. Two little vials busted. One left.
I shall come up with something else to do with the hefty metal thing. Leveling anything out at this point would be futile.
I stick my arm out in front of me, thumb pointing to the ceiling, and close one eye.
We’ll have to get close enough to get the job done.
Just eyeball it.
