By JMalrix
There are moments in life where you step back, look at a situation you created with your own two hands, and say:
“I have a degree in engineering. I swear.”
This week, I had one of those moments.
It began with a noble mission: winterizing my outdoor spigot.
A simple task. A task countless homeowners complete every year without calamity.
A task that, theoretically, should not emotionally break a person.
And yet.
Step 1: Confidence. Dangerous, reckless confidence.
I walked into my utility closet—the sacred chamber where my furnace, water heater, AC, and miscellaneous pipes coexist like a sitcom cast in silence—and shut off the indoor valve.
Awesome. Success.
I went outside and opened the spigot.
Still awesome.
Then I came back inside to “bleed the valve,” which is supposed to be the easy part.
Just loosen the screw.
Let the leftover water escape.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing cinematic.
Narrator: It was cinematic.
Step 2: I… kept turning.
There’s a specific sound pressurized water makes before it launches itself like a missile.
I know that sound now.
One moment: quiet.
The next: WATER CANNON, shooting out of the bleed valve like it was trying to evacuate the building and take me with it.
It hit the wall.
It hit the pipes.
It hit me.
My engineering degree quietly slipped out of my back pocket and crawled under the furnace in shame.
Step 3: Panic, wet acrobatics, and sudden gratitude for a floor drain
I tried to shut the valve while slipping around like I was auditioning for a low-budget ice skating show.
Everything was wet:
The walls, the floor, my socks, my pride.
But then — in the middle of the chaos — I noticed something.
There is a drain in the floor.
A perfectly placed, fully functional drain.
Which means one of two things:
- Occasional water in this room is not entirely unexpected,or
- The builder took one look at future homeowners and said,“Yeah… someone’s gonna do something stupid in here.”
Either way, the drain saved me from a full structural meltdown.
Step 4: Victory (sort of)
With the grace of a damp goblin, I twisted the valve shut.
The water finally stopped.
The room glistened like I’d performed a baptism on the HVAC system.
My clothes clung to me like I had swum home.
My socks tried to resign from their job on the spot.
The “I’m an Engineer” Paradox
Now’s a good time to tell you something personal:
People think engineering is hard.
People assume I must’ve chosen engineering because I’m good at math, or I love circuits, or I wanted a stable career.
No.
I chose engineering because it was easier than writing.
Engineering is like entropy — predictable, obedient.
What you put in is what you get out.
Study the formula, learn the mechanism, show your work, and you’ll pass.
And that’s the key part:
Show your work.
Bad writing doesn’t get that mercy.
In writing, “show your work” just gets your major changed.
In engineering, wrong answers can still earn partial credit.
In writing, wrong answers get you creative disappointment and an academic advisor staring at you politely.
So I became an engineer.
And now, ironically, I write fiction.
And I also accidentally create indoor water features.
Life is balance.
The Aftermath
Once the flood receded into the drain and I regained the ability to think, I did what any responsible grownup would do:
- Tossed towels everywhere
- Pretended I fully understood plumbing
- Googled “Is my HVAC room waterproof on purpose??”
- Considered a career in anything that doesn’t involve valves
Final Thought
If you’re here for flawless homeownership advice…
you may need to rethink your expectations.
But if you’re here to witness a grownup with an engineering degree get humbled by household plumbing—
Welcome home.
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