Years ago, when we bought our first house, B and I decided we needed a pool. Not wanted—needed. The backyard was sloped like a ski hill, so an in‑ground pool was a no-go. Naturally, we went with an above‑ground and thought, “Hey, let’s just build a giant deck around it so it feels in-ground.” Because why not casually take on a small construction project the size of a starter home?
Since this kind of thing was in B’s wheelhouse, we decided to DIY it. And by “we,” I mean B had the skills, and I had… enthusiasm. Maybe. On a good day.
We took the first week of August off work—yes, August in North Carolina, also known as the 9th circle of hell—and ordered the materials. The plan: build a 27×30 deck from the house to the pool. Easy-peasy. B could do it in his sleep. Me? I was more of a “thrives in air-conditioning and office chairs” kind of girl.
What B failed to factor in was that I was not your typical handyman helper. I had zero experience, questionable upper‑body strength, and a deep emotional attachment to climate control.
Seven days later, I was basically a nail‑gun ninja, and we had ourselves a deck. I won’t lie—there were ugly words, actual tears, and enough band-aids to qualify us for a sponsorship. But we survived. And honestly? After living through that week, I’m convinced our marriage can survive literally anything.
