My handy-dandy informational leaflet says that bergamot reduces stress, so I dripped some in the diffuser yesterday as I set out to finish a project. A few words about bergamot, and then the project.

I thought bergamot was some sort of geranium, because I sometimes make assumptions based on no logical evidence, like the rest of humankind. It sounded geranium-y, and since I just passed a guess-that-flower Facebook quiz with flying colors I was feeling kind of confident. Bergamot is actually a green citrus fruit that’s about the size of an orange. It can be used to make marmalade or, not surprisingly, perfume. Bergamot essential oil is used in about half of all women’s perfumes. When I looked up bergamot’s uses on WebMD, what I was told wasn’t what it’s good for, but what it’s not. It’s “possibly ineffective for: mental alertness” and there’s insufficient evidence that it reduces anxiety during radiation treatment.

So my research, and I can call three minutes of using my phone research because I make the blog rules, was inconclusive other than to say bergamot’s a potentially nice smelling orange. I mean, water is “possibly ineffective” for thirst if you don’t drink enough of it, and if you asked me if the calming vapors of bergamot worked while I was having radiation transmitted into my body I would probably give you the middle digit. You’re setting the bar pretty high for an orange if you expect it to have complete effectiveness in any realm, especially one involving that which made Spiderman cling to buildings and take on great power and great responsibility.

The bergamot did smell pretty, and I was relatively calm while I worked on my project. This was, incidentally, building the world’s smallest, most crooked desk. I’m creating a study in what was the storage room in our house. It is also a very tiny room, and it had become the exer-cycle of the house, everything thrown in there over its handlebars to be sorted later. I finally sorted it and now we can ride the bike, should we so choose.

Last weekend my boyfriend was attempting to do some work at the dining room table. He cleared off some Legos, put his headphones on, and started typing. My daughter was playing at the other end of the table, and my son was in the living room on his iPad. I jumped in the shower, and when I got out I could hear the kids chirping away like magpies in just-above-inside voices.

“Um,” I heard from outside the bathroom door, “I think I’m going to go to the library.”

I looked out and saw that my son and daughter had moved their toys directly beside the computer at the dining room table and were standing like Velcro around my boyfriend’s chair, chattering away, just wanting to be in his orbit. Adorable, and trying, in the way of an infant who will only sleep in your arms. So beautiful and heartwarming and you never want it to end and dammit it has to end because who’s going to wash these dishes and fold these clothes – or in this case write this meeting agenda – if I can’t get my ass in gear.

Hence, my assembling a desk. I’m confident in my assembling ability, much the same as the nine guys who are holding different parts of the elephant all feel confident that they know exactly what they are doing. Someone’s got a trunk and someone’s got a leg and someone’s got a tail and everyone’s right, except no one knows they have an elephant. I’m completely confident because I followed the instructions to a T and all of the holes lined up so it should all be right.

But the drawers are kind of too far to the left, and the cabinet door slams, and I think it’s too short for his legs to fit under, and the top slat of actual desk is damaged so it’s just perched on top while I wait for the replacement. So I really just have, like, all the parts of the elephant slammed together. Just don’t sneeze. The desk is so me – it’s a little too short and a little too squat and a little too left of center and beaten up. But serviceable. And it means well.

For the longest time I wouldn’t assemble things. I was completely terrified that I would ruin them. My ex-husband and I would get a new piece of furniture and take the pieces out of the box and my insides would seize up and I would want to be anywhere, anywhere – feeding spiders, corralling goats, fucking ironing, for God’s sake – anywhere but there. There was where I had to anticipate what piece he needed next. Or what tool to pass. Or when to read the instructions and when to hand them over. When to talk and when to be quiet. It got to where we would get something and I would declare that I was just going to be somewhere else in the house during assembly.

Why? It won’t be like that this time. You’ll be more helpful this time.

But I never was. I never learned what to anticipate.

It took me a long time to be in the room when my boyfriend built something. And then it took time to be able to look at what he was doing while I was in the room without feeling uncomfortable. And then it took time to be able to participate, when and if I wanted to, and realize that I didn’t have to anticipate. Eventually I worked my way up to offering advice. Which was accepted.

And now I can build on my own, which I love. I love operating a drill and I love using a butter knife as a flat head screwdriver. I love MacGyver’ing it. I love when I don’t have to MacGyver it, but I’m me, and that seems to be the way the cookie crumbles.

And so I have this tiny, crooked desk that I built stress-free, with the help of bergamot. Or maybe just with the help of time.

My money’s on time.

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