It is a sobering realization to discover I lack the requisite patience to be a day laborer. There goes another future career option. What I appreciate about painting--the satisfying squeak of the paint adhering to the wall, the saturated distinction between the swath just painted and the uncovered expanse, the obedient paint bead along door jambs--does not compensate for the pain in my back, shoulders and hands.
As I paint, I discover that in this room as well Mr. and Mrs. Previous Owners have painted everything--walls, moldings, trim, ceiling, socket and switch covers--with the same color. I try to understand their choice--perhaps they were in a hurry, colorblind, or desperate for a sense of coherence, whatever the cost--but my frustration outpaces my tolerance, especially when I realize that the socket covers are permanently afixed to the walls.
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