measuring tape

Step 1: Acquire measuring tape.

Step 2: Decide today is the day to measure everything. Walls, floors, ceilings, tables, chairs, plants-everything.

Step 3: Ignore Step 0, which was “Check if your measuring tape obeys the laws of physics.”

The tape is shiny. 50 feet long. I hook it on the living room wall. Pull slowly. Smoothly. Elegant. Satisfying. A triumph.

And then it jumps. Yes. Jumps. Like it has a vendetta. Hits the ceiling. Rebounds. The hook slips. Tape slaps my forehead. I stumble back. Crash into the coffee table. Coffee table wobbles. I grab. Too late. Tape wraps around my legs. Chest. Neck. Hair. Possibly my dignity. Gone.

Mr. Covid bolts. Flour from last night’s failed baking experiment rises like a ghost cloud. Blender lid flies off. Somehow, a loaf of bread is airborne, hitting the lamp. Lamp shatters. Glass sprinkles over the floor like glitter at my niece's party.

The couch, considerably small in size, starts to slide. No, it’s airborne. Tape hooks around the leg. I panic, pull. Couch collides with wall. Crack appears. Plaster rains down. A faint scream escapes from me.

Step 4: Stay calm. Step 4 is impossible.

Step 5: Attempt to rewind tape. Fail. Tape winds faster than a caffeinated squirrel. It loops around my arm, my neck, the ceiling fan. Fan starts spinning. I grab the pull cord. Catastrophe. I swing. Like a very nervous Tarzan. Crash into bookshelves. Books everywhere. Encyclopedias collide with ornaments. A globe falls. Spins off the table. Lands on Mr. Covid’s tail. Cat disappears under bed.

Step 6: Attempt to clean up. Fail spectacularly. That is normal. To me. The great.

Step 7: Tape has now wrapped around every piece of furniture. Every appliance. Possibly the toaster is involved now. Don’t ask how.

Step 8: Assess damage. Floor is a mosaic of shattered glass, flour, and bread crumbs. Couch is askew. Coffee table leaning like it’s auditioning for modern art. Ceiling fan dangling at a frightening angle. Tape is taut. I am a human pretzel.

Step 9: Attempt logic. “Okay. If I… slowly… unwind… maybe…” Tape zings back like it has personal grudge. Smacks me in the ribs. Cries of inanimate objects fill the air. Lamp, blender, couch-they are conspiring. I swear it.

Step 10: Panic. Oh dear. Panic properly.

Step 11: Try to run. Get tangled further. Trip. Crash into a box of old decorations. Ornaments shatter. Tinsel wraps around the tape. It glints. My reflection in a bauble shows absolute regret.

Step 12: Attempt diplomacy. “Please, tape, stop.” Fail. Tape does not negotiate. Tape escalates.

Step 13: The cat returns. Judging. Disgusted. Clearly considering leaving permanently. Maybe because I named him.

Step 13.5: Flashback - The Naming Ceremony of Mr. Covid

It was a solemn day. A day of destiny. I knelt before a small, furry being whose eyes glinted with judgment—Covid. Yes. Covid.

The ceremony was simple yet profound.

Step 1: Present the cat with a miniature crown (borrowed from my niece's princesses)

Step 2: Recite the sacred words: “Thou shall henceforth be known as Covid, for your unpredictability is unmatched, and your chaos unmatched.”

Step 3: Offer a ceremonial snack-half a tuna flake, ceremoniously placed on a silver spoon.

Step 4: Covid blinked. Blinked again. Flicked tail. Decision finalized.

The room smelled faintly of incense, mixed with catnip, flour, and residual despair from previous DIY disasters. A small plaque was made, but Covid promptly ignored it and sat on the sofa, already plotting future chaos.

Yes, the name Covid was chosen because it spreads unpredictably, causes havoc, and leaves a mess in its wake. Philosophical, really.

I remembered thinking, “One day, Covid will be my equal in domestic chaos.”

And now, as Covid stalked toward the center of the chaos battlefield (aka my living room), the philosophy came true.

Flashback - the END

Step 14: Attempt to grab tape. Knock over bookshelf. Books fall. Hit ceiling fan. Fan spins more dangerously. I grab lamp. Lamp swings. I hit wall. Wall groans. Wall cracks more. Flour is everywhere. Bread is everywhere. Tape is everywhere.

Step 15: Step back. Survey chaos. Sit. Possibly cry.

Step 16: Try to phone neighbor for help. Realize phone is tangled in tape. Also smashed. Boom.

Step 17: Throw hands up. Accept fate.

Step 18: Listen to faint hum of tape as it retracts slowly. Objects slowly settle. Couch is leaning at 23 degrees. Coffee table is upside down. Ceiling fan hangs like a defeated flag. Mr. Covid glares. Flour covers everything like snow.

Step 19: Look in mirror. Hair is full of tape. Some bread. Plaster dust. Confidence gone.

Step 20: Mutters quietly:

“This is all my fault.”

Step 21: Sit. Consider life choices. Maybe retire from DIY forever.

Maybe it wasn’t the measuring tape. Maybe I did everything perfectly and the universe just hates precision. Maybe the couch wanted to fly. Maybe the blender had ambitions. Maybe Covid-yes, Covid, planned this entire uprising from the very moment of the naming ceremony. Maybe walls are secretly sentient. Maybe flour is a weapon. Maybe I am actually a magnet for chaos. Maybe, just maybe, if I had done nothing at all, none of this would have happened. But no. I touched the tape. I measured. I tried. And look where that got me.

Step 22: Start cleaning. Slowly. Carefully. Tape still twitches ominously. I retreat to corner. No more measuring. Ever.

Step 23: Remember measuring tape still has 10 feet free. Shudder.

Step 24: Put tape away in drawer. Decide drawer is now cursed. Consider moving apartment.

Step 25: Mr. Covid jumps on couch. Couch collapses.

Step 26: Realize no one survived this battle unscathed. Everything is slightly broken. Everything is now art. Chaos art. Modern chaos art. I am a curator.

Step 27: Consider future. Decide maybe just use a ruler next time.

Step 28: Tape makes a small zip noise. I freeze. Tape is patient. Tape is eternal. Tape is victorious.

Step 29: Whisper:

“This is all my fault.”

Step 30: Flour inhaled. Collapse. Consider nap. Dream of measuring tape… still alive.

h.c.