Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Pearl

I have always had respect for the trades people – your carpenters, your plumbers, electricians and hardwood floor installers. You know – people who do real work, as opposed to, say, me, a person who types really fast and brakes for over-priced coffee. It is with these thoughts that I must admit that after three days of seemingly non-stop painting on my part, I have developed more than just respect for these people. I’m in downright awe of them.

I’ve been painting an empty duplex. The new tenants are moving in Friday. It’s a great place with hardwood floors and lots of windows, but it hadn’t been painted (or cleaned, apparently) for about five years.

It’s satisfying work, painting: Instant gratification. The walls were drab (or, as was noted earlier in the day, perhaps assaulted in some way by someone wearing clothing made out of large-grit sandpaper), you put a fresh coat of paint on them, and there you go – a new room.

But did I mention that I’ve been painting for three days now? I think it’s been three days. The sun comes up, the sun goes down, there’s the smell of paint fumes in between.

Me: I’m exhausted.

Greek Chorus: How exhausted are you?

Me: I’m so exhausted that I had McDonald’s for dinner last night.

Greek Chorus: That’s pathetic. You should take better care of yourself.

So we’ll keep this short, as the long hours of holding my arms above my head to reach those high spots have left me dull-witted and monosyllabic.

And have I mentioned yet that I’m exhausted?

Ack.