It had only
been a clump of clay, a pebble-sized bit of hardened
scraggy earth the color of cement; but once wedged
in the soft fleshy nook between my third and fourth
toe, it was a seed of pure evil, planted there
by Lucifer. I hobbled, cursing, to a chair, on
which I managed to pitch my ass while simultaneously
lifting my foot to my face. I seized the offending
bit of plaster with two fingers and chucked it
across the room, or at least I tried to make it
that far -- its insignificant weight offered only
enough momentum to allow it to fly a few feet before
landing on the paper below with a
thwap that was, in the end, unsatisfactory.
A muscle I never knew I had, located near the top
of my left cheekbone where it meets the bottom
of my eye socket, began to twitch. Having been
pushed so slowly, and in such small increments,
I had not realized how close I'd come to the vast
chasm of insanity until I was perched on its verge,
staring desperately into its depths.
"Are you okay?" It took a moment for the words
to penetrate the cocoon in which I was suffocating. "Hey,
Barb
. Are you all right?"
No
, I thought. "Yes," I said.
David eyed me cautiously. "You sure? You look
like you're about to, I don't know, freak out
or something."
"I'm fine, really," I insisted.
"Then why are you doing that?"
"What?"
"Why are you fiddling with that stuff on the
table? Why are you touching everything with each
of your fingers? You're OCD-ing, aren't you," accused
David. I've told him a thousand times that I'm
not "obsessive-compulsive," but he likes to point
out my little rituals, those things I do that
help me to feel like I have some semblance of
control -- repetitive, symmetrical movements
that I am convinced might somehow rid me of negative
emotions.
"I need to get out of here," I said. "
Now
."
Our place had only been under siege for two
weeks, but it felt like two years. Months ago,
when the plans were made, I agreed with David
that if we were going to get it done, we should
get it all done at once -- to experience a greater
inconvenience for a few weeks instead of intermittent
nuisances spanning several months. Once the crew
arrived with all of their equipment, however,
I questioned the logic.
The first day, furniture was moved away from
the walls and covered with its emptied drawers,
stacks of books, and artwork. All of this was
covered with a Saran-Wrappy thin plastic. Brown
paper was taped to the floor in almost every
room, canvas was draped on the stairs, and pretty
soon, dust from the sanding covered the kitchen
counters and every surface reachable by air.
Home improvement is like plastic surgery, only
not quite as shallow. The home is a temple, one's
sanctuary; David and I have elicited the help
of professionals to make ours look more like
we want it to, knowing full well how uncomfortable
the process might be. Okay, maybe not "full well."
"Where are you going?" David asked. I was grabbing
my keys, purse, a sweater, trying to force myself
to breathe more slowly to avoid hyperventilating.
"I don't know," I muttered. "Somewhere. Anywhere."
