And nobody seems to want to help me with home projects. As if they already know that hanging a picture involves me pointing the studfinder at myself and making it beep. Repeatedly. I guess I’m really more of a DIM (Do It Myself) guy.

So when it came time to paint the workout room, no one volunteered to help. As if they think the first 90 minutes would involve me continually asking, “Mind if I cut in?”

I don’t have children to pitch in either. But I can imagine the reaction of my theoretical kid.

“Sure, I’ll help you paint, Dad.” “Great, Son, just take this brush and go around the top and bottom of each wall, and paint in a couple inches. Get the corners, too. I’ll be back in a bit to roll out the rest, and we’ll be all done.” The next thing I’d hear would be that Bongo Run Away sound effect from Scooby Doo.

I made a last ditch attempt to enlist help before I began. Here’s how that went:

“Dad, would you help me paint? I’ll pay you…”

“You don’t have to pay me.”

“Because I’m your son?”

“No, because I’m not going to help.”

You begin to see why I need this room painted as painlessly as possible. The last thing I want is to have to put two coats on. No matter how cold it gets. (Now you also see why I’m a DIM guy.)

So, thank you again, Sherwin Williams, your paint (in Blue Burst) delivered as promised. One Coat. Guaranteed. And what a coat it was.

Before I began painting, I wrote myself a list of reminders:

Take your time.

Layer it on light so it doesn’t drip.

Don’t get paint on the baseboards.

Or ceiling.

Or the carpet.

Don’t scrape the wall with the ladder.

Don’t step on the paint lid.

Don’t get your foot caught in the paint bucket, and stagger around knocking things over.

And yanking down the ceiling fan.

And breaking the lamp.

And a leg or two.

This list was VERY useful. An hour later, at the ER, when the nurse asked me what happened, I handed it to him.