It’s not so bad being a moron.

Really, it’s not. Being a moron allows you to set the bar so low that no matter what you do or how badly you do it, people just shrug and say, “Well, at least he didn’t kill himself.”

That, my friends, is a low bar.

On Monday, I noticed that one of our sliding glass shower doors had somehow gotten off the track. So I looked at the door a minute and proceeded to put the door back on the track. I got the top part of the door back on the track without killing myself, and that’s where I should have stopped. I should have been OK with only the bottom part of the door being slightly off the track.

I mean, I know that now.

But because, as I think I have pointed out, I’m a moron, I was determined to fix the bottom part of the — and here is a keyword —GLASS shower door. So I raised it a bit and attempted to slide it back on the track.

And that’s when the glass door decided to explode into thousands of little pieces.

Have you ever been holding onto a glass shower door when it exploded into thousands of little pieces?

Don’t.

Raise your hand out there if you saw the shattered glass the shower door coming.

Wow. That’s a lot of hands.

Now a lot of people might have gotten angry with themselves after breaking a shower door, but not a moron such as me.

A moron such as me  would just back out of the bathroom, dust hundreds of pieces of glass off himself and say, “Oh, well, at least I didn’t kill myself.”

And that’s what I did. Then I went downstairs to get a broom and dustpan.

Well, first I stopped to get a handful of Band-Aids to plug a few recently opened holes in my hands and arms, then I got a broom and dustpan and started sweeping up the mess.

I also called Brian, who along with a few other guys have done a lot of the remodeling work in our house. In fact, Brian was the one who installed the shower door that I managed to shatter into thousands of pieces.

Brian said that those doors usually don’t shatter; I said they do when a moron is trying to get it back on the track.

Brian laughed.

Then I called my wife, who, to her credit, did not laugh or call me a moron when I told her about the shower door.

“Did you cut yourself?” is what she said.

When I told her I had a few minor cuts, she said, “Do I need to drive you to the hospital to get stitches?”

The reason my wife asked me that question is because I once dropped a knife on my toe while I was slicing flank steak and told my wife that I was fine.

Three hours later, my wife drove me to the hospital so they could put a bunch of stitches in my toe.

I’m telling you, it’s a low bar.

The other reason my wife didn’t laugh or call me a moron is because she really didn’t like the shower door. We were recently staying at a hotel and my wife mentioned how much she liked the shower door in the hotel room.

So now, instead of replacing the shower door that I shattered, my wife has decided that we should get a new kind of shower door.

That’s right. I’m not only a moron who manages to shatter a glass shower door, but I’m also a moron who gives his wife an excuse to get a brand-new shower door.

Oh, well, at least I didn’t kill myself.