TICO TALES
A Technicolor Adventure
Is Michelangel-old? Or am I?
No one has ever accused Ticos of being afraid of color. When I moved into this house, every room was a different, shall we say, “unusual” color. In some rooms, every wall was a different hue of buyer’s remorse.
Today was the day to finally start painting the guest room. It’s a horrid shade that I call “thorazine green,” and I’ve had to keep the door closed to avoid becoming slightly nauseous.
Yesterday, I finished my own bedroom walls, which were a different loud green color—much too noisy for sleeping. Now, it’s a delicious mocha—restful, serene, and no longer crazy-making. It took several days to finish, and, exhausted, I slept like roadkill last night.
I love to paint. When I was a starving graduate student, I earned grocery money by hanging wallpaper and painting interiors of the six-flat condominiums in my Chicago neighborhood.
What did I know about hanging wallpaper? Nothing. But the friendly guys at Home Depot taught me everything I needed to know in exchange for my purchases of equipment, paint, paper, and glue. Also, they liked holding the ladder for me, especially when I wore my extra-short painting shorts.
Back then, I could finish painting a room in a day, including taping, cutting in, and rolling two coats. I was a painting maestro, armed with a roller and a paintbrush, transforming white walls into colorful masterpieces with the swiftness of a ninja. I could leap across the room, conquering walls and corners in a single bound. Michelangelo would have been impressed by my artistic prowess, or so I liked to believe.
Wallpaper took a bit longer and was more labor-intensive, but was such a joy! A room would be transformed with every sheet I hung. For one who’s into instant gratification, this happy chore was a heavy hitter.
After a weekend of laboring in other homes, I could return to mine, make dinner, clean up, and dive into my studies, often working well past midnight. The next morning, back to the university, teach classes, work in the lab, and write research papers.
Energy to burn.
Today, 40 years later, I can’t wrap my brain around such a vast time-chasm between then and now, but my body has no such confusions. Ah, the golden days of youth when I could paint a room with the agility of an Olympic athlete! Now, I find myself reluctantly acknowledging the cruel truth that time has passed and I am not the spry twenty-something I once was.
I tell myself that taking a water break every 15 minutes is necessary in this humid, tropical climate to avoid dehydration. I hear my knees complain as I stoop to paint the base of the wall with my cutting brush. My arms ache from stretching to that far corner by the ceiling holding a loaded roller.
What I used to be able to accomplish in a day now takes at least three full days. And by “full day” I mean break at 2:00 PM to have a glass of wine and late lunch with a friend, return to crash on the sofa for an hour, then get up and go to bed with a good book.
As I stand before a half-painted room, surrounded by scattered paint cans, brushes, and plastic sheeting, I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Growing older has turned me into a Michelangel-old painter!
So, for now, I’ll take a break, sip some tea, and contemplate the realities of growing older, one stroke at a time.
Author’s note: I should have said “brush stroke” but sometimes that little man in my head thinks he has a sense of humor, and this happens. Alas.
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