I bought a machete at a garage sale a few months ago. It cost only three dollars. Seeing the price, I felt compelled to succumb to my urge to own a long, dangerous knife, the kind with a blade that speaks unapologetically of the machismo of its owner and master.
This unapologetic oratory, I should note, requires the knife to be sharp. This one was dull as a dowel. The rhetoric, then, could not take place until I addressed that fault.
While my wife was away these past few days, I discovered that a mere sharpening stone was not equal to the task. I realized, absent a bench grinder, my shop (such as it is) would be of little help. Then, I realized I own a metal file with single-cut teeth, just what I would need to remove massive amounts of metal from the dowel-like blade. And so I went to work.
In short order, the blade—while a far-cry from being razor-sharp—was at least machete sharp. I flexed my muscles and spoke unapologetically, on the blade’s behalf, into the mirror.
The mirror laughed and commented about my unimpressive biceps. I would have sliced into the mirror for that transgression, but the blade was only machete sharp.
