On getting paint on myself

It never fails. I cannot pick up a paintbrush without getting paint all over the back of my arms. I cannot come within fifty yards of a paint roller without getting a drip of paint in my hair. Stray paint droplets are drawn to me like iron filings to a magnet.

It is not that I am not careful. I try to put the maximum amount of paint on the wall while getting the minimum on myself. It just seems to work out the opposite way for me. Part of the problem is that I tend to go into a “zone” once I start working on a project. I start humming mindlessly and tunelessly. I get lost in the moment. Ergo, I have to spend many subsequent moments trying to wash all the paint off of my body. It never fails, no matter how long or thoroughly I may clean myself up; there is always some splotch of paint that doesn’t show up until I am getting dressed the next morning.

I have known a lot of people who could do messy jobs and always seemed to end up looking fresh and spotless. Not me. When I work in the garden, I am covered from head to toe in mud. When I work on the car, I am spotted in grease, oil, and engine grime. When I paint, I seem to take on the color that I am trying to apply to the walls. I just really get into whatever I am doing.

I am so glad that I didn’t go into medicine.