AN UNFINISHED LIFE
It’s a shame there’s already a book out there called “An Unfinished Life” since that would’ve made an ideal title for the story of my life.
Just ask my husband. He swears I suffer from ADHD, except in my case, it stands for Attention Deficit Home-remodeler’s Disorder. I’m not the only one who suffers from my affliction. Those who live with me suffer as well, as they’re forced to reside around and with my unfinished projects.
I’m not certain how I came to be so afflicted, but confess that my case is severe. I suspect the origins go back many years, to when I first entered the work force and an older coworker told me the best way to become an irreplaceable employee was to devise a filing system so complicated (or inane) that no one else could navigate their way through it.
(This particular coworker’s own system included two drawers devoted to the letter “T” due to her large number of files that started with “The.” The State of West Virginia. The Department of Motor Vehicles.)
So completely to heart did I take her advice that I was soon applying it in ways that went beyond mere filing-far, far beyond. To most every corner of my house and yard. Not only would no one be able to unmuck my many messes, but they’d be unwilling as well.
From the time we first walked through the doors of our house, my wheels started turning. There were so many possibilities.
And so little money or time.
But those afflicted with my variant of ADHD would never allow measly finances or a frequently erratic schedule to deter them from starting a large, involved, and extremely messy project (or three). Not for a minute. True ADHD sufferers are fueled by such limitations. Such roadblocks not only make the job more of a challenge, but they also provide legitimate-sounding excuses for not completing the job.
The main factor hindering me from completing a task is this bothersome little thing I like to call “Monday.” These Monday impediments always come along much sooner than I anticipate. During the week, I can rarely muster the energy after work to spend time on a project, and the aforementioned spouse’s escalating annoyance often compels me to relocate much of the construction-related material and byproducts to a less conspicuous area, thereby rendering the area into something I’m able to view as more finished/less urgent than do other members of my household.
Currently, there is not a single room in our house not bearing my mark–a mark as familiar to my family as that of Zorro. He of the Z. Me of the tape-masked, yet not painted; the spackled, yet not sanded; the mitred, yet not nailed.
That of which legends are made.
Just not particularly positive legends.
My husband compares me to a dog marking its territory, in an only slightly more tolerable manner.
Lest you believe me to be proud of my failings, please know that I’m not. I recognize the frustration of my spouse and my child, who must regularly traverse our abode in hurdle-like fashion. Still, I find myself unable to take most projects beyond a certain level of completion. Once the most challenging point is past, I find that my interest has gone with it.
I envy the a surgeon who, once he’s performed his job on the patient, can pass the needle and thread to his assistant and say, “Close her up.” That’s what I dream of for my unfinished life.
