I hate ceilings.

They block my view of the beautiful sky, hold in stale air, and generally interfere with my creative juices.  Oh, sure, they serve as places to nail down the floors for the folks upstairs if you’re not on top and make heating and air conditioning easier, and if you are on top, they keep out the rain and snow, but still.  Ceilings are a necessary evil.

Case in point:  the ceiling in my office.  Steve FINALLY moved out last Friday, and he took every single piece of furniture with him.  But discovering just how truly precious bookcases are to fellow college professors is the stuff of another post.  No, this one has to do with paint.

My office space was built in 1960-something, and nothing much has been done save move folks in and out since.  The walls were full of holes from overexuberant door knob swings, long-gone nails and screws that had supported countless pictures, shelves, and bulletin boards, and what could only have been a fist from either a temper tantrum or a kung fu session gone horribly awry.  And then there was the ceiling.

You know that hideous spray-on popcorn stuff common in low-priced motel rooms everywhere?  The kind that looks like the room has hosted the national spitball competition in its entirety?  Yeah, that’s my ceiling.  Except the spitballs are the sprayed-on asbestos that was all the rage in fireproofing back in 1960-something, and the ^&@(%$ thing has NEVER been painted.  Never, that is, until yesterday.

I was assured the room would be move-in ready as of Monday night.  Just to be sure, BJ and I waited until Tuesday afternoon to go up and wrestle with the desk.  My heart went pitty-pat as I rounded the corner and was met with the unmistakable smell of fresh paint.  Then we saw it.

A work-study student had rolled about four stripes of white paint across the dingy gray ceiling, discovered what a pain the the backside painting it was going to be, and instead slapped a sloppy coat of blue paint on the walls without filling any of the holes.  He got paint all over the carpet and the cat5e patch cables.  I was FURIOUS.

After a few choice words for anyone in earshot, I climbed the ladder and began painting the ceiling myself.  It took nine hours, three and a half gallons of paint (two of which I had to go buy myself because the college didn’t supply enough), and twin bruises on my shins from contact with the ladder rungs and neck and shoulder muscles that feel like raw hamburger.  We filled and sanded all of the holes,  put a decent second coat of blue on the walls, and left for home at 11:52 pm.

The good news is that the office now looks great, and there’s no more danger from the asbestos because it’s very well sealed.  The bad news?  I still have the adjoining conference room to fill, sand, and paint myself tomorrow.  But trust me:  even though that ceiling has been painted before — probably in 1980-something — I’m not going to touch it!