pool table

Yesterday, two men arrived to piece together our pool table. Apparently a pool table is nothing like buying a couch: it doesn’t arrive already put together and able to be put anywhere you’d like it. Silly me for thinking it would. My presence was requested to see exactly the location the professionals had deemed the table would go. The man was smart, knowing the woman of the house’s approval was what really mattered.

I did not like what I saw. It was supposed to go lengthwise in the other direction, now it was taking up our entire basement. “Well, we need five feet on every side for when the pool cues are actually in use,” the man explained. I couldn’t argue with him. After all, I’ve seen that Seinfeld episode where George’s dad has a pool table in a tight space.

But, what I could do was bitch at to Steve about how pissed off I was. So I did. But then, shortly into my tirade, when I saw Steve’s smile vanish and his eyes sadden, I realized that I wasn’t going to solve anything this way. There was an 800-pound unmovable billiards table in my basement that was, up to this moment, making my husband very happy. I believe he actually said, “this is my dream” earlier.

So I stopped. After all, when we bought this house, I did tell Steve the basement was his to do with as he pleased (although I said that to make sure none of his posters ended up in our bathroom again). Instead of grumbling, I helped him rearrange furniture and move pictures until the basement was just as he wanted it. If a woman wants to keep her man, she better keep him happy. And my man is one worth keeping.

Steve had a couple friends over last night and we all played pool, had drinks and listened to music. And Steve was happy. I have to realize that not everything is about me. And hey, if I can make dreams come true by simply moving around some furniture and keeping my mouth shut, I feel like I’ve made the world a better place. At least until the bill arrives.