Loving Myself

By Wants2Fly

For the past 2 nights, I have been painting sample colors on the walls and trying out faux finish effects, before the painter comes next week. Benjamin Moore has a new line of 260 colors in $4 sample bottles that do 2 coats on a 4-ft wal patch. (The place is jumping. Other paint companies are going to have to follow suit -- but right now, they've got the market covered. Ralph Lauren has a few dozen samples at Home Depot, but not even close to this.)

Anyhoo -- this is not an advertisement.

I realized that for the first time in my life, I don't have a man saying, "Paint samples on the wall? We don't need no stinkin' paint samples. Pick a color, and I'll paint the room for you. Don't make this more complicated than it has to be."

I can try colors to my heart's content. And if I get paint in my hair or on my face, I don't have a guy grabbing the roller or brush and ordering me to stop making a mess.

My inner child is having fun.

Plus, I decided to try to scrape some of the popcorn off the ceiling -- even tho' I suspected that my interconnective tissue disease was not likely to let me succeed at this.

I'm not strong enough to get it really even, but it's got a nice sandstrong effect in a few places.

Unfortunately, the pain is agony and I can't continue. I'm sure the painter will mention that I've made a mess. But that will be it. My apartment, my ceiling, I can live with it.

If there was a man here, he'd likely say, "Look at the mess you made. I told you that you wouldn't be able to finish this."

"Well, that's okay. Just leave it how it is. No one will notice."

"I can't leave it like that. It's a mess. You just did this to manipulate me. Now look at the work you made for me."

Teeeheeeheeeheee.

The great thing about middle age is that my hormones are not constantly in high gear, carooming through life wanting sex. It probably would be nice -- but I'm not ready to trust after the way things ended with Paul. Other middle-aged friends assure me that I'll eventually heal enough to be able to enter a loving, romantic relationship.

But it is so cool that I can enoy this bit of fixing my apartment -- instead of remaining in my disappointment about how ti doesn't compare with the home I lost, that I can't have a dog here, that I still don't have employment.

Hooray for Effexor. And the PsychoCentral Forums. And prayer. And Heaing with Time.

If you spray the popcorn ceiling with a light mist of water, it scrapes off with no problems at all and no strength needed.

oh Fun... I love painting!

Well, er, the moment of joy passed. I'm back to being my old poopie self.