Last Thursday in purgatory, I mean Home Depot, my husband, Bob, stared at nails for forty-five minutes.

“JUST BUY SOME SILVER ONES!” I said, seething. I know men can’t ask for directions, but I didn’t know this problem included asking for help in general. Bob gave me an ‘it’s more complicated than you think’ look and said, “If you helped with anything around the house other than setting the table you’d know how difficult this is.”

Now, it is very foolish for Bob to engage me in this type of debate because when it comes to the ‘I do more around here than you do’ business, I always win. Not only can I out-itemize him, but I can also remember what we were both wearing the last time I did said chore, and what, of course, we ate.

I blew on my fingers as if I was about to crack a safe. “You never empty the bathroom trash can.” I began my list.

“What about the dump?” he countered.

“My feminine side doesn’t care to go to the dump.” I grabbed the nearest box of nails and threw it in the cart. “And how about the cat litter? Maybe your male side would like to pitch in and  . . .  ”

“I’ve cleaned it for years. You did it the first time yesterday!”

It is not wise to argue with a therapist. “Dragging up the past is a no-no.” I wagged my finger at him.

He took the offensive. “And why can’t women read maps?”  

“Oh that’s hormonal. Women can read maps the first two weeks of the month, but after that, forget it.”

A little Home Depot man in an orange apron came down the aisle with a huge cart. On the side, it said, “Do not ride.” This of course gave me an uncontrollable urge to take it to the parking lot and sail it from one end to the other. He slowed down near us. Bob feigned a coughing fit until he passed by.

“Excuse me!” I yanked another orange clad worker by the elbow, “could you help us?”

The worker turned around and with a toss of her long blond hair said, “Sure.”

“What type of nail would I need for a galvanized roof?” Bob asked just as smoothly as Kevin Costner.

“Let’s see,” I said later. “If it’s another man, you can’t ask for help. But if it’s a woman, you can. Now, that makes a ton of sense.”

“You know, you make fun of me a lot.” He walked away.

I felt awful.

We drove to Cumberland Farms to ask for directions home. Behind the counter was a man. “I’ll go in,” I said, fully expecting Bob to stop me, but he didn’t.

And we spent the rest of the ride home comparing fear stories. We laughed at things like my dread of hiccuping and burping at the same time because when I was little, my big brother told me that would make you die. Then there’s the dark doorway phobia I’ll never get over. And the myriad of ‘what ifs’ that only occur to me at 3 am. And when I wake Bob, he’s never once turned away and discarded my anxieties as silly.

So we both decided that his problem with asking for help was only a big deal if we made it one. And in the grand scheme of life’s legion of trials (many of which we wish would never happen) there are certain tests that we just don’t need to pass. And that is simply because a great many of them really, in the short as well as the long run, don’t matter one darn bit.