Lock-Blocked

March 1, 2013

I love my wife. I do. She’s patient and smart and pretty and kind, and I’m not just saying that because she hasn’t taken the opportunity to smother me with a pillow in all the years we’ve been together.

(She could do it, too. I’m a heavy sleeper. And heaven knows she’s got enough pillows lying around.)

So my wife is pretty great. There’s just the one little thing. It’s her door locking.

Not all door locking, mind you. In the car, she’s a whiz. You want the cars locked with the dashboard button, or the one on the fob, or even pushing the little lock lever on the door itself — she’s your girl. She’s amazing. A genuine triple threat.

When it comes to our front door, however… well. Things are different. Unpredictable. And bewildering.

It’s not that she doesn’t lock the front door, exactly. She just doesn’t lock the front door in the same way, or under the same circumstances, the same way twice.

Here’s the setup and my personal locking philosophy:

Our door has two locks — a twisty sort of handled one, and a deadbolt. I think of these as one unit. If you’re locking the door, you engage both locks. And when do you lock? Under three circumstances: when you’re out, when you’re sleeping and when you’re naked.

“Leaving? Lock it. Showering? Lock ‘er up. Taking a midday power nap, once you’ve hidden all the extra smothery pillows? Lockerooni.”

It’s that simple. Leaving? Lock it. Showering? Lock ‘er up. Taking a midday power nap, once you’ve hidden all the extra smothery pillows? Lockerooni.

That’s my theory. And my wife’s theory?

I have no idea. But I’m pretty sure it involves several dice rolls and some sort of random number generator.

I came home tonight, late from work, butt drooping, eager to collapse on the couch. The missus was home — and presumably, neither asleep nor naked — so the door should be unlocked. According to my philosophy.

Of course, it was locked. So I fished out my key, unlocked the first lock, unlocked the second, turned the handle and… nothing. Naturally. Because I hadn’t actually unlocked the two locks. I’d unlocked one, and locked the other. Because only one was locked to begin with, which is clearly just insane.

I say that with love. But seriously. Insane.

Finally, I negotiated the logic problem to let myself into the condo, looking appropriately harried. My wife, passing by with a glass of water from the kitchen to the bedroom — fully clothed and awake, I might add — took one look and said, “What’s the matter with you?”

I tried to be gentle, but the collapsing couch was still twenty feet away.

“The door. Why did you lock me out?”

“I was on the way to bed, to read.”

“Well, okay. But there are two locks. Why only use one? I mean, you’ve got two boobs. Would you ever just wash one in the shower, and leave the other dripping and filthy and alone?”

She tossed her water at me, and went back to the kitchen to get another. And suddenly, I knew how the ‘other boob’ feels.

So I learned a few things tonight. My wife is never going to come around to my way of thinking on the door locks — and it’s best if I never say anything about it again. Also, she doesn’t respond well to metaphorical examples. At least, not those involving her boobs.

That’s helpful for the next time. Right now, she’s sleeping and I’ve toweled off and collapsed on the couch, as planned. Soon enough, I’ll head to bed myself, and on the way engage both the door locks.

And hide the extra pillows. Very important, tonight. Hide all the extra pillows.