Never say never…but this time I mean it

 

The universe has laughed and smacked me upside the head every time I’ve ever said “never” about something. Don’t believe me?

Never leaving Colorado (HAHAHA! 2011)
Never homeschooling (HAHAHA 2012)
Never moving again (HAHAHA 2015)

See? You’d think I’d learn. I say “never,” the universe takes that as a challenge and cracks its knuckles, I find myself trussed to four horses headed in opposite directions. There’s a reason I don’t say “never” about returning to a classroom and just keep renewing my Illinois teaching certificate.

But I really, truly, hand to god and the founding fathers mean it this time.

I am never, ever, EVER painting a room inside my house ever again.

There are other home improvements on deck that involve paint, like a wooden tray I found at a yard sale and my front door, but a room? In which I live? I will not apply paint to another wall in any home in which I reside ever again so help me.

Tom and I just finished painting half the house. This is the fourth home we’ve painted together, and by far the most difficult. We’re blaming the high ceilings and sheer square footage, and not the fact that we’re 20 years older than the first time we cracked open a gallon of Behr. And when I say half the house, I mean we painted: two hallways, my loft office, the kitchen, the family room, the master bedroom, the master bathroom, and the master closet. Walls, ceilings, trim, doors. Six different colors, two coats (but not on the ceiling and trim/doors, because even we have limits). Crap, upon further review that’s actually more than half the house. My hands are so sore and swollen that I still can’t get my rings back on, and my hips are grousing about the amount of time spent curled up on the floor painting trim. I had a flute student stare at the bruises on my legs and ask if they were from painting. Yes, yes they are, dear child. I acknowledge that my lower limbs resemble a blotched giraffe, but that’s what happens when you’re prone to bruising and lean your body weight against ladders and step stools so you don’t fall on your ass, which would piss you off because of the paint in the carpet and not because of the hospital stay. Oh, and we cleaned the carpets after painting and before moving furniture back in, because they were filthy and I am a glutton for home improvement punishment.

In fact, I am so 100% certain that I will never paint again that while I cut in yet another wall I mentally created a list of things I would be inclined to do instead.

French braid my nose hairs.
Count to infinity using only prime numbers.
Waterski on my face.
Jump out of a perfectly functional plane.
Dress for a formal event without the assistance of Spanx.
Go on a gluten bender. Though if I were to do that, I’d start with Chinese dim sum and just eat my way around the world.
Get a full color 3D tattoo of current occupant on my ass, wearing a #MAGA hat and having a “grownup tickle fight” with Putin.

You can see I’ve really thought this through, which happens when you’re painting for nearly three weeks straight; low VOC or not, the fumes really get to you. Our living room, banister, and laundry room still need painting but we’re hiring that shit out. We don’t own scaffolding to reach the top of the room, the banister needs repair on top of paint and stain, and the laundry room floor needs replaced before anything else.

I considered burning my painting clothes (16 year old maternity shirt covered in the paint of three different homes, and a pair of cutoff sweatpants that I think were from high school and I suspect have some “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” magic shit going on because they really should NOT fit), but they’re so saturated with latex at this point that a bonfire would be a hazmat situation. Or they would just stand there in the flames like the undead, mocking me and my plans to never, ever paint another room in which I live.

I’m saying never. And this time I really, truly mean it.