When I started to write this blog, I never gave much thought to what direction I was going to go with it. I certainly never wanted it to be thought of as an old person’s blog, or a blog about aging, gracefully or otherwise. I wanted all ages to be able to relate to what I was saying. Yet sometimes my age does enter into it, and I can’t help but see things from a “mature” perspective.
We’ve been working on redecorating the dining room for a couple of weeks now. Last weekend was the dreaded wallpaper removal. This weekend we sanded the walls and put the painter’s tape where it needed to go. Yesterday we spent the day painting all the trim, the lower half of the wall below the chair rail, and the ceiling. It was white paint, so we didn’t have the pleasure of seeing the color go on the walls. That happens next weekend after we put the primer on.
We used to do this kind of thing all the time when we owned our home in San Antonio. I remember one February when all three children got the chicken pox…but not at the same time. They staggered being sick so we parents had nearly a month of sick children. My husband and I took turns staying home from work, and we used that time to paint the hall and the living room. It was a lot of work, but we were so much younger, and our bodies had no problem with the stretching and reaching and bending over and getting down on the floor. Or getting up off the floor again. This is not the case now.
I wish I had recorded the sounds we made while we were working this weekend. It was as if we were having a contest of who could moan and groan or sigh the loudest. Every muscle in my back is sore, and I’m sure my husband’s back and shoulders are in no better shape after doing the ceiling. Besides painting the dining room next weekend, we intend to tackle the downstairs bathroom as well, at least stripping the wallpaper (the last room with any!) and removing the glue. This summer we will work on painting our huge bedroom. After that, we shall see. I know that I can’t keep doing this much longer. I know when to say “Enough!” I’m not sure my husband does. I think men can keep going longer, or maybe they are slower to admit when their bodies can no longer do what they want them to do. All I know is, pretty soon there will come a time when my husband says, “Let’s paint the den,” and I will have to say, “Let your next wife help you.”