I’ve been spending a lot of time lately with the Wooster family – Raphael, Jake, and Isabella. To be honest, Raphael is my favorite. We just get along so well. He looks a little something like this:
That’s right. Just when you started to think I might be kinda normal, I tell you I’ve named my paintbrushes. To be honest, it’s one of the only ways I can stay sane with all the painting I’ve been doing. (And yes, the fancy paintbrushes are worth the price. No lie. Invest, people.)
Our new carpet is going in upstairs tomorrow so today will be a marathon of taping and painting edges and rolling a second coat in order for most of the rooms to be done before the carpet. It’s going to be exhausting madness. Why? Because I have perfectionist tendencies.
I know no one is going to see that edge of trim I can’t even see because there’s a wall in the way, but that doesn’t keep me from painting it. And I realize no one will know if I don’t paint the underside of our closet shelves, but I’ll know. And that’s enough to make me sand and paint every edge of the closet shelves.
For me, “pretty good” is not a compliment. “Pretty good” means not great. “Pretty good” means it could have been better. It’s like saying it’s “good enough.” I don’t do “good enough.” I don’t want it to be “acceptable.” I want excellent, extraordinary, impeccable. I’m like that with everything I do. Whether it’s painting a room or editing a manuscript, I hold myself to freakishly high standards. If I’m going to take the time to do something, I’m going to make sure it’s as close to perfect as I can get.
So if you need me, you’ll find me buried under a layer of paint, obsessing over the details. Because that’s what I do, folks. I live in the details.