Friday, July 7, 2017

“Cleaning in the Nude”

            Now that I have your attention—Yes, I strip down nekked whenever I clean with anything that can destroy my clothing. I don’t know why or how, but as soon as I enter the same room with bleach, it spills and splatters all over my outfit, leaving my shorts pockmarked and my tops tie-died. For years, I’d approach any cleanser with extreme caution only to look down once I tightly screw on the lid to find a patch of orange-white dots doing a polka on my pants.
            I struggle with paint, too. It doesn’t matter what kind of paint I use, half of it ends up on my clothing, covering my hands, and tangling my hair. I have a special outfit I don if my painting takes me outside, or if anyone else is in the house while I roll walls or brush doors.
            The other day, my son proudly purchased a wonderful attachment for me to use while spray painting our outside furniture. Excitement filled me as I pulled pack the trigger and found a steady, smooth stream flowing from the can and effortlessly covering our Bistro table and chairs. I moved swiftly around the furniture and decided to add four plant holders and a small table to my repainting adventure.
            When I finished the job, smugness filled me. I had an itsy-bitsy speck of paint on my right index finger and thumb from when I’d repositioned the furniture a tad. A triumphant “Whoop!” and a fist pump to the air swirled around me. I’d painted nine pieces and walked away without being coated by Hammered Bronze!
            This miracle, though, proved short lived. In my enthusiasm to try out the attachment, I worked with bare feet. My outdoor shoes sat forgotten on the back porch. Now if any of you have ever used spray paint, you know it casts a mist far and wide. Imagine me dancing around the table and chairs, focused upon the clean ease of my new toy, and not noting that I capered and cavorted onto that light coating.
            When my son asked me about the effectiveness of his little device, I reluctantly admitted my foot folly. He laughed. . . and laughed . . . and laughed.

The finished project!

Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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