Sparks Are Flying: Confessions of a Man Waiting for the Electrician

By Steven Stays

There comes a time in every grown man’s life when he must face the inconvenient truths of adulthood—like realizing that flipping the light switch 47 times will not, in fact, fix a blown circuit. And so I did the mature, responsible thing: I called for a professional.

Yes, an electrician.
A man in the trades.
With a toolbelt.
And possibly… forearms that tell stories.

I don’t know what it is about tradesmen, but the moment I scheduled the repair, something in my soul (and possibly my lower back) began to tingle. Suddenly I cared deeply about the condition of my circuit breaker. I started saying things like, “Maybe it’s a faulty ground wire,” and “I should check the load on this panel.” I have no idea what that means.

Now, let’s be clear—I’m not saying I expect to fall in love with the man who fixes my dimmer switch. But I am saying I lit three candles, sprayed Febreze like I was baptizing the apartment, and casually left my copy of Men at Work: 2025 Wall Calendar open to “July: Jorge the Plumber” right next to the light switch.

Call it hospitality.

When the doorbell finally rang, I had to give myself a quick pep talk: “William, he is here to do a job. You are a respectable man. Do NOT purr when he pulls out the voltage tester.”

He stepped in. Boots. Stubble. Safety glasses perched on his head like a crown. My knees buckled like an overloaded fuse box.

“Where’s the panel?” he asked.

I thought, Sir, that’s a bold opening line, but I managed to say, “Right this way.”

He got to work while I stood nearby pretending to be extremely interested in the amperage rating on my breaker. Occasionally, I offered helpful remarks like, “I love what you’re doing with that screwdriver,” and “Wow, I bet you tighten a mean wire nut.”

He chuckled. Or maybe he sneezed. Either way, I took it as a sign.

And when he said, “All done. Everything should work now,” I almost proposed marriage on the spot. Because honestly? Any man who can restore power and keep his shirt on the whole time deserves respect.

So, did sparks fly? Only the literal kind, thanks to my faulty dimmer. But as he packed up his gear and headed out, I smiled, flipped on the light, and whispered to myself:

“God bless the trades.”