Please don’t tell my surgeon, but I just put the first coat of paint on my bathroom walls and ceiling. I suppose that if he found out what I’ve been up to, he’d smack me with a roll of gauze. I did the base coat on Friday night, since I’m an absolute party animal this weekend, and tonight I applied the initial coat of the shade I’ve been dreaming about. It’s called “Hawaiian Passion” –is that not the greatest name for a paint colour ever? You’ll have to wait to see the photos for me to reveal the colour, however.
After the carpal tunnel release for my right hand back in June, I caught heck from the surgeon for (his words) “babying” my hand. Excuse me, sir, but if you have recently cut open a body part, it’s not necessarily a good idea to overdo things. This round involved my non-dominant left hand, so I figured enough time had passed since the big scary minor surgery date that I could safely engage in a little home beautification. I hope the same plastic surgeon who did this hand surgery will consider painting the seven square feet of my upstairs bathroom a happy compromise, but I’m still not going to tell him about it.
Yes, a plastic surgeon.
While he was working on my paw, and I was shaking and trying not to cry, I asked him what other kinds of procedures he specializes in. “Well,” he replied, “I do a few facelifts and some noses, but mostly I just do boobs.” Quite the variety of skills, that guy.
I wonder if it would be more or less advisable to paint a bathroom nine days after having something done to improve my bust than it is following my hand surgery? All I know is that balancing on my stool or on the edge of the tub to get paint into the corner (and then off of somewhere I didn’t mean to put it because I’m working with a single wing) takes some doing. There was also the time when I slipped off the outside edge of the tub and my life flashed before my eyes. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to tuck in my sutured hand, meaning I fell into the tiled wall with my elbow and landed on the window with my shoulder.
The bruises on my shoulder were certainly better than tearing all my sutures out by landing on my hand in the bathtub, but it certainly hasn’t been a fun time. I can’t wait until I have two mostly operational hands and I can do all sorts of fun things.
Just don’t tell the surgeon I’ve been tumbling around my bathroom, please. The man has scary needles and I don’t want him peeved with me.
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