But it wouldn't be summer if I did not paint something.
And my new office was disgusting. Disgusting. A counselling office should not look like the person who owns it is in the midst of a mental breakdown. And that is exactly how it looked. Papers exploded everywhere on the walls, haphazard and crinkled. Pin holes everywhere. Scuffs and dirt and coffee stains and chaos. And residual sadness.
I had a plan to restore order, which is not generally my strong suit, but it is less precious to throw other people's memories and treasures in the garbage, and so I embarked upon it with purpose and clarity. It began with paint, and culminated in ruthless weeding.
CM stopped by to see me just as I was finishing. I was frightened to some degree, because CM has always struck me as humourless and severe. But she has been different with me since January when it first came clear that we would potentially be working together in a different capacity. She has occasionally treated me as though she can see me. It has been unpredictable, off and on.
And yesterday when she stepped into my office and looked around, my heart stopped momentarily. She took it all in, and complimented me on the cleanliness of the space. But I could see her nose twitching like a bunny's, and I knew I was busted. Finally she just asked, Did you paint in here?
I couldn't really deny it. So I blamed Rick instead. Which is absurd because Rick doesn't work here anymore. She laughed (laughed!!!) and said that if I wanted to paint the conference room too she would pretend not to notice that as well.
If I tried this in another space, in another job within this same building, I would have been in trouble. Moving upstairs means moving on up, and part of me finds this repugnant as hell, and part of me is just thrilled to finally feel some approval. This is what would corrupt me if I became as frustratingly complacent as the rest of them. Approval. I want it.