I can’t stand outsourcing. No, I’m not talking about the guy in Bangalore who helps me with technical issues (You’re the man, “Kevin”!). I’m talking about home repair, gadget resuscitation and keeping the overwhelming array of fragile complexities that’s part of our quest for a “carefree” lifestyle humming and functional.
Born out of equal parts DNA-lodged cheapskatery, Oedipal competition with my father (brilliant scholar, one-time holder of the Japanese hurdle record, all-around bon vivant and frequent flyer in the Duke ER following most handyman episodes), and unjustified hubris that I can do anything with sufficient trips to Home Depot, plus a couple poorly videoed YouTube clips and enough mid-project cursing to form a navy, I cringe at the thought of calling in a so-called “expert,” whose only advantages over me in fixing stuff are equipment, training, experience and temperament.
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