I have painter hands. Which is not to say my hands paint. For although they do, they’re not usually affected adversely. Holding a brush for oil painting is so utterly civilized, I could very well have a bone china cup of tea in my other hand while working. In fact, oil painting is downright lilty and airy.
Painting the walls of one’s rumpus room, on the other hand, isn’t lilty at all. It’s dirty and rough. My fingers are so raw from taping and sanding that all traces of my prints have disappeared. Perhaps now would be a good time to embark on my career as an international jewel thief.
Of course, just because I have no fingerprints doesn’t mean I’m invisible. There’s paint in my hair and embedded in my skin. And last night I somehow managed to bang my elbow and shove a loaded paintbrush into my mouth. I had to gargle for a full 5 minutes after that one. And make no mistake, friends, it takes real skill to get paint in your pie-hole.
Anyhoo – the rumpus room will soon be painted, except for the fireplace wall. And the worker dude is chugging away on that, so I should be able to tackle that wall next week. And though I’m sore, tired and my fingers ache, I do feel a tremendous sense of accomplishment.
Does anyone know how long it takes to recover feeling in one’s fingers after the prints have been worn away? Just wondering.