A Perfect Fit

”Measure twice; cut once.”

After seven and a half years, I decided to update my portfolio. I've come a long way as an artist, and though I still have a long way to go, I've progressed enough that my book is horribly outdated. After seven and a half years, I needed to find my portfolio first.

I navigated the maze of our basement, past the furniture taken from my uncle's old house and stored in my old studio because I don't spend any time down there any more. I had to climb over a wooden chest, and finally saw my target hanging on a hook, behind five older and larger portfolios. I took my time, carefully taking the others down, and replaced them once I had the good one. I took it upstairs, wiped it thoroughly clean, and finally unzipped it.

Inside clipped a large black binder, within which were plastic sheets displaying my work against black paper. The plastic was pristine and clear, even after all these years, proving that the money that once hurt to spend was well spent. I realized I'd need new sleeves to add to and replace the older pieces I was rotating out, and so this past weekend I made my first trip to Pearl in years. I found what I was looking for, and realized I'd neglected to measure my portfolio. Ten sheets cost forty bucks, which didn't seem right, so I wasn't about to chance it.

When I got home, the ones I had measured 13.5”x17”. The ones in the store were labeled 14”x17”, so I grew concerned that I had a discontinued size. Back at work on Monday, TheGreek confirmed that the price was correct, due to the acid free paper and lasting quality of the plastic. My existing portfolio attested to that. I returned during the week and took a chance. To my surprise, when I got home the sheets fit my binder exactly. Maybe the size is approximate, or based on the size of the binder itself. It's also entirely possible that in grabbing the nearest measuring implement at hand, a wooden yardstick, my calculations were off.

It's rare that I gamble and come out ahead, even with small matters. I was surprised I bought the right thing, because that rarely happens. On Tuesday, for example, I also purchased some new software for my computer. I didn't get very far in the installation process when it told me I needed at least 384 MB of RAM for it to run. That puzzled me. I was certain when I bought my iMac that I'd gotten 512 MB, but after five years I wasn't positive. I checked the system info and found I had a mere 256 MB, with an empty slot to upgrade. For those less computer savvy, low memory like that could account for slower web loading when I'm watching a DVD, and other tics I'd simply accepted and gotten used to.

I researched the problem thoroughly, coming across scary photos of people exposing the guts of their machine as they maxed out their memory. Eventually, I found the basic instructions and it seemed like something I could handle. Unscrew the base, ground myself, and pop in the SODIMM chip.

After thoroughly discussing the situation with every computer savvy friend I have, and with the clerk in Microcenter, I was confident I purchased the right item on my lunch break. Wednesday night I would perform “surgery” and, if successful, my machine would have an additional 512 MB. With 768 MB, things would run a lot smoother.

After gym, I was eager to proceed, despite my dad's protests that the spaghetti was almost ready. “Ten minutes....just don't say anything to me for ten minutes because I'm going to be doing some delicate work.”

“But what should I do with the pasta? It's almost done; should I reheat it later?”

“It will be fine; just let me work and I'll be in soon.”

I had consulted the instructions a final time before disconnecting everything but the power cable. I rested the machine on a seat cushion wrapped in a towel, and carefully removed the screws, one at a ti--

“I KNOW YOU SAID NOT TO TALK, BUT THE MACARONI IS READY!”

“Dad! Five. Minutes!”

I felt like someone diffusing a bomb, even though it wasn't all that complicated a procedure by any stretch of the imagination. Earlier in the day, Rey had suggested that if I was comfortable under my car's hood, even the more serious computer modifications shouldn't intimidate me. I think there's a lot more irreparable damage that can happen to a computer though. You can screw up on a car, and it will end up costing you a lot of money, but you could end up losing a computer forever. With the car, I also have a trained mechanic father directing me.

I removed the chip from its package, and lined it up. It was the right width, but wouldn't fit. I didn't want to force it. Using a flashlight, I saw a little nub on the computer that had to line up with a slot breaking the rows of pins. The nub was centered; the chip's slot favored one side. It didn't fit.

I knew things had been going too smoothly. I tried in vain to get the chip in, then came to my senses realizing I could really screw things up by forcing it. I returned it to its package, hoping the store would allow me to exchange it. My first priority was making sure the computer still worked which, after reconnecting all the cables, it did. I checked Microcenter's hours and found that they were closing in 45 minutes.

My dad started in about dinner again, so I wolfed down a plate of pasta, jumped in the shower, and was out the door with my receipt and the incorrect item all within ten minutes. I even had time to research my specific model further and learn that I needed a 144 pin PC133 512 MB SODIMM, not a 200 pin DDR2700 512MB SODIMM which the store sold me. Don't worry; that all sounds like a foreign language to me too.

I navigated back roads. I caught lights green. At one point, ten minutes before the store closed I thought a railroad crossing would be my downfall. It only cost me a minute. With five minutes to spare, I was on the road to Microcenter. The problem was going to be resolved, and I wasn't going to screw up like I usually do.

I waited patiently at an intersection for a light to change, and in that time I should have realized what had happened. It wasn't until I crossed that intersection that I knew something was wrong. I don't know how it happened, but the store was North of the intersection I'd just crossed. Somehow, I drove past it without realizing it! I turned at the next block, and drove what felt like a mile before a break in the curb offered a U-turn. The battle was lost, and still I pressed on. At 8:59 PM, I screeched crookedly into a parking space and ran full speed toward the store. It was futile. The automatic doors were off. Signs blocked a view into the store, and between them I saw a manager locking the interior doors down. Angry at my stupidity, my throat raw from the screaming I'd unleashed in my car, I whirled and kicked the nearest concrete pillar. My big toe is still sore. Idiot.

I returned to rationality on my way home. At first I thought I should have skipped dinner, skipped even conversing with my folks before opening up my computer. I thought about all the precious time that cost me, then thought about how receptive the people in the store would be to exchanging an item brought in five minutes before they wanted to go home after a long day. Things probably worked out for the best, and that crucial moment in which I zoned out and missed the shopping center may have saved me an ugly scene. That moment fit my needs perfectly, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I should have listened to my dad and stayed home, taking my time with dinner and letting the problem wait for another day.

In the end, things in life don't always fit perfectly. We appreciate those rare times that they do, compromise those times when they almost do, and eventually accept when they don't.