Need a Mr. Fix-It? Don't call Solomon

LAST WEEKEND, after 14 years of marriage, I finally came to terms with who I am. I no longer have to pretend. I am out of the rut that ensnared me, and I am free from the lie I tried to live for so long.

That's right, boys and girls. I have an admission to make. I can't fix or repair anything. I am not, and have never been, Mr. Fix-It.

I know you're wondering what finally made me come to terms with my truth, so I'll tell you.

My son's Xbox 360 stopped working, and rather than making things worse by trying to repair it, I called LaVeta, because, well, she's better at fixing things than I am.

I wasn't always comfortable enough to admit my shortcomings in this regard. In fact, there was a time in our marriage when I would go to great lengths to be macho in every way. Back then, I was still trying to prove myself to my wife.

In those halcyon days, when love was new and the kids were nothing more than a twinkle in my eye, LaVeta and I had time alone. In those precious moments, I wanted to be everything she could possibly desire in a man.

I did crunches and push-ups so I could be buff and sweaty like the guys on Harlequin book covers. I bought nice clothes and expensive cologne, so I could smell as good as I looked. I listened when my wife talked about cooking shows. I turned off the game on several occasions. I even took her to see the ultimate chick flick - "Titanic."

But of all the things I tried to do to be the guy of LaVeta's dreams, fixing things was at the top of the list. I still remember when we moved into our home. It was right around the time I bought a Ryobi 9.6-volt electric screwdriver. I thought that, with the right tools, I could somehow morph into Mr. Fix-It.

My Ryobi could drive screws or remove them, and it came with Phillips and slot-screw heads. Surely this would do the trick.

Somehow, the electric screwdriver made me change the way I saw myself. I started to think I was the Big Willie of tool owners.

On many a day, I pictured myself up on a ladder, my electric screwdriver hanging from my leather tool belt as a modified version of the theme from "Shaft" played tantalizingly in the background.

"Who is the man with the electric screwdriver in his hand?

Sol . . .

He's a bad mutha-

Shut your mouth.

But I'm talkin' about Sol . . . "

But then we moved into our own home, and when I saw our stuff sitting there, waiting to be put back together after months in storage, reality hit me. I wasn't Mr. Fix-It at all, and I knew it, because I'd met Mr. Fix-It in person.

He's my father-in-law.

This is a guy who used to design and build furniture, refurbished several houses and once built a small house from the ground up.

Without revealing too much, let's just say this: The man doesn't have a toolbox; he's got a tool shed. We lovingly call it the Home Depot Annex.

He's got tools for every occasion, right down to those hex things that mere mortals have seen only with Ikea furniture. From jigsaws to hammers, from band saws to drills, he's got enough gadgets to build Noah's Ark.

Thank God, because he's helped me out of many a jam.

On more than one Christmas Eve, when I refused to pay for store assembly of a bike, then got it home to realize it had 1,000 parts and 50 pages of directions, my father-in-law came through.

When I tried to put my son's Little Tikes car together and the door came out looking like a wing, it was my father-in-law who made things right.

Watching him do his magic (he wouldn't let me help him, correctly assuming I'd only get in the way) has given me time to reflect on my own lack of tool acumen.

I'm now at peace with the fact that I can't fix anything. But I sure can write a mean story, and for now, that's good enough for me.