Light bulbs always burn out faster when I’m the one who screws them in. I know this because (despite having lived in my home for over three years) the vast majority of working light bulbs in my house were installed by the previous owners.
I’ve screwed in many bulbs since taking ownership, but they’re always to the same few sockets because mine burn out so quickly.
It’s possible that this is all in my head and that my dim memories misremember which bulbs were already replaced. But it seems far more likely that I suffer from a light bulb voodoo curse.
Even in fixtures with several bulbs, the ones that previous owners screwed in mock me with their luminescence while mine just sit like Congressmen – entrusted with power but entirely unable to use it.
Sometimes I wonder if my home’s previous owners were simply better at installing light bulbs than me. But my technique seems flawless with a “righty-tighty, lefty-loosey” approach that has been passed down through the generations.
Other times, I wonder if the previous owners were just better light bulb shoppers. Truthfully, I’ve spent embarrassing amounts of time comparing bulbs at all the big box stores. I’ve even brought in samples from each light fixture, but I still get confused.
I think I buy exact replicas, but even with a multi-year advantage, my bulbs are dominated in head-to-head competition.
It’s enough to drive me crazy.
I want to believe in a world where all light bulbs are created equally, but that belief is being sorely tested. I alternate between feelings of disdain towards under-performing light sockets and flashes of anger at the bulbs themselves. You know the type.
The one that most tests me is the left side of my pair of front-step lights. The right side is a saint, but the left side reveals my voodoo curse’s wicked sense of humor by alternating between working and not working at the most inopportune times.
On several occasions, I’ve come home to find it not working. But by the time I go through the house and find a replacement bulb, it’s miraculously fixed. So it remains in place.
I even kept it in after being embarrassed in front of a pizza delivery guy (I swear the light worked when I phoned the order in). I just can’t bring myself to replace something that mostly works.
This stems from my childhood experience surrounded by three-way light bulb lamps. Mom bought them in the 1970s when three-ways were all the rage.
Three-way bulbs provide dim, normal, and bright settings that involve a lot of extra flicks. I struggled with that flick-work.
My attempts at turning the lamps on were often met with a sudden pulse of light, then darkness. Like Batman using stun grenades to disappear.
But instead of being left with wonderment, I was left with pangs of guilt for ruining the room’s vibe.
Three-way bulbs also provide a thriftiness thrill when one or two positions last beyond the others. It’s like riding past a gas station with your Empty light on because you know the Shell a half mile away will save you a couple of cents.
Reckless? Sure, but so is life.
Recklessness might well be a cause of my light bulb problem – especially when it comes to handling.
I’ve heard that light bulbs shouldn’t be handled with bare hands because the oils from your fingers can impact the effectiveness of the bulb.
I don’t know if oily fingers are my problem but I refuse to wear fancy white butler gloves to find out. I’ve always found finger oil to add a special ambiance to a room.
In fact, I’ve gone the opposite way and have burned my fingertips on many a light bulb because I can never remember to change an outdoor floodlight during daylight and they automatically turn on with any motion after dark, including the motion of fully screwing them in.
It’s just par for the course when living with a light bulb voodoo curse.
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