A few months ago, when I first inadvertently took over as Imperitrix of Painting, I was very uncomfortable with the getting paint on me part of it. I was careful to scrub my arms and legs in the shower before I left the house, and by the time I changed back into my regular clothes I was perfectly Killz-free. When I got home, I would wash my hair, lest anything have touched it.
Then a couple of weeks ago I figured hey, it’s cold out, I’m wearing socks and boots. It really doesn’t matter if there are splotches on my feet. But my arms and legs were still scrubbed clean long before I left the house. The hair, not so much.
Two weeks ago, I decided that I was wearing pants, and oh, my God, the effort to scrub my legs-so not worth it. I did my arms though- please, I’m not an animal. Two days later, after repeated scrubbings, I still had streaks on my thighs and I was planning on wearing a skirt. Meh, I thought, I’m just going to Mass. If anyone is going to see those streaks, we’ve both got much bigger problems than paint on my thighs.
Today I effectively threw paint all over myself, arms, legs, hair, feet, you name it, there was paint on it. (Including my bra and panties. I don’t know how that happened, because this was decidedly not sexy body paint but deeply unsexy dead grandparent’s kitchen cabinet paint.) I barely washed my hands. What? I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and hey! I even picked most of the paint out of my hair before I got it cut, I am not an animal!
Yeah. I shudder to think what I’ll be reduced to by next Friday.
(I did get my hair cut, though, and it’s lovely if I do say so myself. And free landlord advice. It was a good afternoon. )