You know the band of people beating down their doors from the inside, posting pictures of the last events they attended, reminiscing the pre-pandemic activities they enjoyed, screaming about their boredom mid-conversation and swearing that these 1-50 things are on their post-pandemic to-do list? Good. That is not me.
My time alone is the most precious thing to me. I seek it with a religious fervour. I like the space to be myself without an apology tucked under my tongue because I often need one. So, these times aren’t lemons to me. I do not feel stressed at all. In fact, my only issue is the fact that I am not moving around physically as I’d want. I need to get active so at least once the lockdown is over and we resume at the office, I can still fit through my door.
One activity I enjoyed doing did this month was painting my room. The apartment I live in is painted penicillin yellow. I wanted it white, Brilliant White by paint product standards. The painter I hired took the money to buy paint in 2017, I must tell you, he has not returned. My mother insists he would not do the same thing to a man, I agree but let us not get into the feminism of hiring artisans or whatever Gloria Steinem said.
In 2018 I bought a 20litre bucket of paint, a roller, 6- & 4-inch brushes and masking tape. I painted the corridor, and the parlour, did a recoat because Penicillin Yellow cannot be covered in one coat. I examined my work happily; fresh un-even white coat across and a ruined rug, I was proud. The paint left was only good enough to cover up accidents, so I did not paint the room until now.
Fast forward to 2020, and an email from HR declaring a mandatory leave, I braved a supply run, purchased another 20 litres of brilliant white paint. This time around I began from my room. Remembering my mistakes from before, I dusted off loose bristles from the new brushes and wiped off any lingering dust from the corners. Then I took a bedsheet that had seen better days and covered up the things I needed to remain unstained.
Fam! Let us not discuss how I almost died trying to open that paint bucket… When It finally opened, my sore fingers convinced me to start painting the following morning.
The next day I began by dipping the roller in the buckets, pressed it to a flat surface to make the paint even, then coated the wall, up- down, up- down- and then a recoat. I have lived here for four years, in that time, suffered one heartbreak. I approached the sockets, switches, and tricky corners with the 4-inch brushes. Dip the brush in the bucket, wipe it around the rim to lose the excess paint then carefully coat and recoat the space for in honour of slain cockroaches, mosquitoes I smacked to death without mercy. Carefully moving along the line where the wall and floor meet, where the roof and wall meet, both ends have seen the aggressiveness of my broom, so I took my time, apologizing to the angry lines.
I let it all dry and repeated the pattern the following day, giving attention to the widow slab, making sure that I left the glass pane open, so I don’t die for my craft from paint fumes.
When I was done, I had the same feeling as when you have a good cry or you open a brand new exercise book on the first day of a new term. Fresh, new, the open airy feeling that I am at the edge of a good beginning.
