Bathroom Painting

I’m painting one of our bathrooms. Today I put on the primer coat. Not at all that exciting, especially at first, but then I realized that I have a laptop, which I then realized enabled me access to that one all-important thing: music. I dusted off the black lappy. I hadn’t touched it since it came last week. Didn’t really have a use for it, but I did then. I put my lappy on the tiny dresser (which really only actually has a prayer book in it) next to the bathroom door. I loaded up Grooveshark and got Delta Spirit playing. I aimed the speakers into the bathroom. Perfectly positioned. Two hours of wrist-destroying activity. Gobs of primer splattered onto the walls and I spread them over the bathroom like peanut butter as the sounds of Beirut, Animal Collective, Edward Sharpe, Fleet Foxes, and Songs of Green Pheasant kept the mundane task fun. I might’ve sung along aloud if I wasn’t so shy about my family. Whispering “White Winter Hymnal” under my breath sufficed. I was bored, but this was more than good enough. I’ve painted before, but I never got to choose the music. I like AFI and As I Lay Dying, yea, but it isn’t emotional to me, you see. It couldn’t make me feel good painting. I felt perfectly fine painting the bathroom, now. The fumes didn’t bother me too much at all, and I just felt good for the music. Took a break to eat with the family. My dad looked at me approvingly. He didn’t even say some stupid joke. Just said, “Mario should be the first to eat today. He’s the only one who’s been working.” I felt nice and well-fed afterwards, but there was still a tiny bit of painting left.

Those moments where you know you’ve just made a memory. I’ll remember how the roller brush was not as awesome for painting the ceiling as I though. I’ll remember that one tinge of frustration. I’ll remember the music, the uplifting melodies and gorgeous voices that carried me the whole day, and I’ll remember how my dad fell asleep to it on his bed. I’ll remember where that one streak of white paint came from on my laptop, just two inches from the trackpad where my pinkie must have rested. I’ll remember the mango I ate and how it sat in my stomach as I painted, how I could tell it still tasted sweet. I’ll remember the rest of my family laughing in the living room, maybe getting annoyed at how loud the music was. I’ll remember the music, and I’ll remember that I was actually a little sore.