I Once Was Blind, And Maybe I Should’ve Stayed That Way.
When I was in middle school, our stereotypically gender ambiguous physical education teacher used to make us spread out in an even grid on the gym floor to await instructions before every class. My designated seat, as the new girl who’d arrived mid-season, was in the very back row, directly in front of the locker room doors. I’d amble out last, undoubtedly too cool for school with my stick legs poking out of an over-sized t-shirt, plop myself on the floor, and make eyes at the cute boy across the room every time he turned my direction.
This was a time in my life that I think of as my “cloud” period. I was the mysterious new girl, I’d started making a few friends, and the world was… fuzzy.
“I think you need glasses,” my mom said to me as I squinted across the dinner table.
She might as well have told me that I had suddenly grown a huge facial mole or webbed fingers. I already had braces, for crying out loud. What more did the woman want from me?
It’s okay, I thought. I can pull this off.
This was several years prior to Sebastian Valmont making it work in Cruel Intentions, but I’m pretty sure I thought I’d look like the female version of this:
And, even worse than the fact that I didn’t manage to be the only girl in the history of middle school to fashionably rock stylish specs and turquoise braces, donning glasses unveiled an entire world to which I’d been previously blissfully unaware. I put them on in front of the bathroom mirror, and suddenly my once-flawless, porcelain skin had pores. Pores! And sure, noticing individual leaves on trees and blades of grass was wondrous in comparison to the green blobs they’d once been, but was it worth the trade-off when I discovered cute gym boy wasn’t actually smiling at me, but the girl next to me?
I think not.
It was the first time I discovered the bliss in ignorance, and it’s a lesson I wouldn’t soon forget.
Eighteen years later and perpetual seeker of information that I am, I still find that I’m much happier when I don’t know everything.
My friend Missy came to visit last week, and she helped us start demolishing the kitchen on Saturday. Missy is one of those women who can seamlessly blend hard work with spiked-bracelet style, while I, as an apparent nod to my middle school days, sport frizzy hair, chipped nails, and an old concert t-shirt.
“Damn flathead screws.”
And listen. The discoveries we made while pulling out appliances, ripping out floors, and tearing down cabinets were no exception to the way I feel about remaining content in ignorance.
Like missing walls:
And pink vinyl flooring:
And show-stopping exposed wires wrapped around the studs:
There were a few fun discoveries, too, like oddly installed antiquated appliances:
And a recipe for Fettucini Alla Patricia, from the 1992 Parade of Homes.
We didn’t get as much done as we’d have liked, and I’m currently living amongst a proper, sawdust-riddled mess:
And while there are some sights I certainly wish I could erase from my mind, I know we have to acknowledge the flaws before we can actually fix them.
And that, dear readers, is what licensed electricians and CeraVe skin cream are for.