When Sam and I first moved into our loft, we immediately launched into renovations. We built a new bathroom upstairs, tore down and reinstalled the ceiling, and painted all of the walls. Well, we hired people to do all of this stuff, and because of it, we were uprooted for two months, two simultaneously stressful and pampered months. We stayed with friends and family, learned what it felt like to live with roommates (pretty fun) and doting parents who cooked for us every night like we were children, yet gave us our adult freedoms (pretty awesome).
When we moved back home, we beheld an incredible transformation. Where there used to be mysterious scuff marks and dents in the ceiling now hung one smooth sheet of drywall with the barest of ripples, like the surface of a pond on a still afternoon. Walls that were marred from the previous owner now were painted a sleek grey, and the new bathroom had hints of an upscale boutique hotel. This was like our baby, gestating for two months, and now that it was out in the world, we could not have loved it more.
With this love, however, came great responsibility: Sam wanted to preserve the newness, the perfection, of it all, and while I felt similarly (who doesn't want to keep something in pristine condition for as long as possible?), he took it to a bad place. We held caucuses before nailing any holes into the walls; he asked that I wipe down all shower fixtures after each use. One afternoon, I walked in on him as he was hunched over in the new shower stall. I thought he was sick, or fell.
"No," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "I was just looking for cracks in the tile. Don't you do this?"
No.
Perfection had become a curse, driving us to abnormal lengths to preserve it. After he discovered a couple of minor, barely noticeable scratches on the new sink, he was convinced I was at fault and "requested" that I take off my ring when I wash my hands or brush my teeth or stand anywhere near it. I held firm and refused. "But we have to live!!" I implored.
On Monday, the delivery guys came and installed our new bedframe upstairs. This final piece of furniture completes our major purchases, and it is beautiful, a low platform bedframe that sits in the designated "bed space" as if built in.
It was perfect until I saw a few noticeable scratches and dents on the wall next to the bed, presumably due to whatever the installers were doing. It's not horrible, certainly not the end of the world. Not for me, anyway.
I told Sam while bating my breath for the torrent of wrath that I expected to rain down on me. Fortunately, he was riding a high on seeing the new bed, so he just shrugged it off, saying damage to the walls was bound to happen; we have touch up paint for such occasions.
I had to hide my surprise at his nonchalance. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I interpreted it as the lifting of the curse; the dark cloud of perfection has been banished. Now we really can live like normal people: the sink is scratched, the walls are marred, and the house no longer has to act as if it is constantly prepping for an Elle Decor photoshoot.
Halleloo!
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