Paying Dues

A careful scrutiny of this blog and my STRAVA account would reveal that as summer yielded to fall my fitness, such as it was, waned. At the same time I managed to find a few kilos that had been lost for a couple years. I resolved to shut up and get back to work. I am pleased to report that those kilos are in search of a new owner and my fitness is at an appropriate level for December.

After avoiding the pain cave for so long I am reacquainting myself with the price of success.  It is contrary to most of my 2017 to have my body tell me something is hard and not back off.  Each hard effort does make the next one significantly easier. I am no longer a young man so as I increased my hard efforts I made a corresponding increase to my recovery.  The result has been a cumulative upswing in my work load and, more importantly, my ability to handle that work load.

It would be a mistake to imply this was as simple as making a decision or flipping a switch.  It was a conscience choice, but it has been more than uncomfortable at times. Hard work is hard.  Hard work sometimes feels like I am wasting my time.  It takes faith to put in the hard work now and not see instant results.  The results do come though not as fast as they used to.

To find success we must pay our dues.  

As we age the dues only increase.

Rule 5

Old dog; old tricks

I showed mechanical aptitude at an early age.  I was tearing down and rebuilding my bike when I was in elementary school.   I was barely a teenager when my father had to replace our dishwasher and balked at the cost quoted to install the new one. “My son will do it,” he proclaimed.  It was a valuable, though shocking experience for me. I learned that the circuit breaker for appliances is usually different than the ones for the lights and plugs in the same room.  I was 115 volts smarter when I finished.

During my college years I did construction on and off depending on my class load.  In my twenties and thirties I did a lot of work on my houses because I needed to save the money.  In my forties and beyond I was happy to write a check for those same tasks. Manual labor, though dignified, is a young man’s game.

Last spring a pipe broke and caused water damage at our home.  Hottie had to almost resort to stalking to get a contractor to come and give a quote for the repair.  Parts of three rooms were affected.  The job was small, yet complex enough to make it unattractive to contractors. To bring this story to a quick conclusion, we got the quote but the contractor never showed up to start.

After my patience expired I just dusted off my old tools and started to get to work.  After coming home from work and eating dinner I would go downstairs, turn on the music and get to work.  When the CD played through two, sometimes three times, I would stop and clean up.

After work one day early in the project I went to the store and bought five 4’x8’ sheets of drywall.  As I stood in the checkout line in my fancy work clothes a Hispanic man in a paint stained sweatshirt looked at me and the sheetrock on the cart and remarked, “You don’t look like a hanger.” 

Various implements of destruction

As anyone who has done construction work has learned through painful experience it is infinitely easier to build something new compared to repairing and trying to match existing structure.  True to form, this project involved shimming, blending and the exclusive use of screws instead of drywall nails.  The framing was uneven and the wood seemed to be either petrified or rotten.

My resentment at having to do this in the first place was eventually offset by the knowledge that a contractor would be in a hurry and would take shortcuts to try and speed up completion.  Everyone hates taping and mudding except me. I am not fast, but if I can take my time the finished product is usually pretty good.  Thin layer, sand, thin layer, sand.  Big knife, then bigger knives.  Thin layer, sand, thin layer, sand.  Smooooooth.

My original goal was for the area of the repair not to stick out and look worse than the area around the repair.  As I progressed it quickly became evident the opposite was true.  I found myself blending in old patches and repairs near the area of damage that were there when we bought our house.  A mud knife and a tub of joint compound does not a craftsman make. Sloppy work only looks sloppier when coated with a layer or two of paint. I can’t imagine the idiot who did it looking at it and thinking, “That looks good….”   

Much like farming, the day to day efforts seem almost pointless until the accumulation of my daily work finally amounted to something.  When I put the primer up it revealed the need for more blending in a couple areas.  Because I had invested the time, my time, my valuable old-man-who-would-prefer-to-pay-someone-else time, I did not hesitate to stop, go back, and make it right.

Everything took a little longer than it should have.  As it progressed it looked marvelous. As always, Hottie had picked out some amazing colors.  Between Hottie and myself I think we made thirty trips to the store for various supplies.

After I finished painting it turned out I needed to do more work on the floors that I had expected. With momentum behind me I donned a respirator and removed the old floor tiles and boxed them up and took them to the dump. Then a quick coat of paint on the concrete floor just to be safe.

Yeah, its a hallway.....

In the end all of the hard work on this project is a lot like buying new underwear; it may mean a lot to me, but it is invisible to everyone else.

Orange?

Way back in October of 2001 I found myself starting on plan B. I hadn’t known I would need a plan B, so to be honest, it wasn’t even a plan. I was moving into a lifeless two bedroom apartment on my way to divorce.  Asserting my neglected manhood I bought a black couch and a glass dining room table with black chairs. The stores were full of Halloween decorations and orange was featured prominently.  At IKEA I picked up some orange throw pillows and orange became my official accent color.  I was going BOLD. I added red and yellow pillows as they complimented the orange and black that had either actively or passively become a theme that I would call my own.

The vibrant colors served as a visual illustration of the positive energy that was present now that I was free from the negativity that had come to drag all of my family down. I embraced a bold palette to further separate me from the country beige that I had tolerated at best.

My high school colors were orange and gold (yellow was the stand in for gold a majority of the time) but that didn’t really hold any sway in 2001.  It only provided me some familiarity with the challenges of claiming an allegiance to orange.   Orange has become a color of freedom movements around the world and without intending to do so, it became that for me.  Freedom from oppression, freedom from negativity, freedom from deception. Freedom to be my true self.

Grandson Kyson David stylin' the orange

After I met Hottie she accepted my orange allegiance and has come to support it.  In my head orange remains a color signifying positive energy and Hottie is a big part of that.  When we were furnishing the cabin and needed cooking utensils Hottie managed to assemble a quiver of orange cooking weaponry. 

So if you ask me why orange; you may hear the preceding story, or you may not.  I believe that the origin is less important than the ongoing theme of positive energy and looking forward.

Orange on Wayne.  Orange on Garth.