There is no bad part about weekends. You get to sleep in, relax, hang out with friends, all without any responsibilities. The only thing better than a weekend is a three day weekend.
That is why I love Memorial Day.
I was looking forward to my three day weekend. Usually, three day weekends consist of sleeping in, napping, taking a second nap, and then going to bed. In between the periods where my eyes are closed, I will eat. It’s necessary to eat so you have the energy to sleep.
Unfortunately, this three day weekend was going to consist of something far less fun.
Since I have moved into my apartment, I have hated my walls. The prior occupants had decided on a motif of blinding colors for their living quarters. One room was the exact shade of green that is used for special effects in movies. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the software necessary to shoot my sequel to Space Jam that I’ve been working on, so the green served no purpose to me.
Since we agreed that living in an apartment that appeared to be set in some sort of bizarre Tim Burton acid trip was not ideal, my wife and I decided to use the three day weekend to get rid of these colors and make our apartment, in a word, pleasant.
That was before I remembered one key fact:
I hate painting.
To express my disdain for painting, I would explain it like this: Look at the nineties East Coast-West Coast rap rivalry. If you swap out Tupac for painting and Biggie for me, you would get our relationship. Fortunately, neither one of us has a posse, so the danger level in this feud is very low.
The idea seemed so simple. We would slap a couple coats of paint on the walls, and voila. Suddenly, we have a place to live that doesn’t frighten small children or cause people to wear their sunglasses.
The idea started to fall apart very fast, though.
While we were shopping for our can of paint, we looked at the prices. One can was $7. One was $18. Now, naturally, I decided the $7 can seemed to be the better option.
As it turns out, $7 paint cans are actually filled with water and food coloring. I might as well have found a suitable bottle of Gatorade and tried to paint the walls with that.
Instead of two coats, we did four. By the time our bedroom was painted, I had memorized our walls. If someone were to come and somehow steal our walls, I could describe them in painstaking detail to the police officer who had the misfortunate of filling out our report.
After spending roughly 27 years on the bedroom, we moved to the bathroom. Since our bathroom is actually a coat closet that someone threw a toilet and shower into, the assumption would be that we could be done with a coat in about thirty minutes.
Of course, I am a terrible judge of things like this. I had plenty of time to reflect on this fact as I balanced on the side of our tub while attempting to paint above the shower tiling. If there had been Olympic judges there, even the Russian judge would have been forced to give me a perfect score on the balance beam.
I spent an entire day carefully avoiding the light fixture above the sink, figuring that a trip to the emergency room for third degree burns would slow down the progress I was making. I wished for David Blaine’s ability to levitate so I could reach above the door. I thought about buying stilts (the fun AND practical way to get work done!).
Finally, I had created a pleasant bathing atmosphere. Our bedroom no longer made your eyes bleed. I was able to sit down and relax.
At least until tomorrow. My wife thinks that the living room is too dark.