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Cut to a gorgeous, unspoiled beach, where we'd have a fine old time cavorting in the
waves (Michael), and reading paperbacks in the shade of our multi-colored umbrella (yours
truly).
And yet, after a couple of hours of beach time, we'd find ourselves almost embarrass-
ingly anxious to get back to our chores.
So we'd hurry home and put in another two or three hours of work, followed by quick
showers, cocktails, dinner, and—finally—blessed sleep.
Next day: same thing.
It was an odd mix of intense activity and equally intense leisure, with lots of mental
cross-pollination: as we spackled, painted and swept our way through another grueling
morning of labor, we'd often find ourselves dreaming about the glorious, sun-drenched
beach; but just as frequently, we'd find ourselves loitering under our beach umbrella while
obsessing over all the household chores that remained undone.
Normally Michael, the more motivated member of our crew of two, was still working
long after I had clocked out for the day. But there was one day when I simply couldn't put
down my paint brush.
In short, I became obsessed with gloss white paint.
In my defense, I should point out that white paint has a miraculous, generally unrecog-
nized, ability to obliterate a multitude of sins. You can paint it on pretty much anything and
said thing will look brighter, cleaner and more attractive.
Trust me on this.
I woke up one morning, during our July visit, determined to paint all of the upstairs
woodwork—three doors and a large closet in the bedroom—by the end of the week. This
sounded perfectly reasonable.
My plan was to paint two doors the first day and cruise through the rest of the project
by week's end.
But once I got started I couldn't stop. The curse was upon me.
First of all, the cheap stained wood I was trying so industriously to disguise absorbed
paint like a sponge. I'd paint the upper half of a door and by the time the paint had dried
the color had faded from pristine white to splotchy beige. Although this was disconcert-
ing, I made myself move on and paint the lower half—with similar results. To make things
worse, the strip where the two coats of paint overlapped turned gummy and morphed into
an even less attractive shade of oatmeal.
At noon, Michael ostentatiously consulted his watch, sighed, and mentioned something
about the beach.
“I'll be done soon,” I tossed out unconvincingly.
At twelve-thirty he stuffed his beach towel into his backpack.
“Any minute now,” I assured him.
At one o'clock he was on his way out.
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