We re-painted our living space about 3 1/2 years ago, after the house flooded from a slab leak and we had to replace dry wall, retexture, and repaint. I say we but actually our homeowner's insurance paid for professionals. The family room, which the kids and I call the TV room has a long wall, painted beige. It's pretty gross, even after just three years. There are food stains and drink stains, mainly. But a few days after Fourth of July I noticed something new: a footprint. At first, I thought it was a handprint. But upon further investigation, Jason and I realized it's a footprint. A little, muddy footprint.
This made me laugh. Hard. And out loud. I mean, how did a tiny, dirty footprint end up twelve inches up the wall? Did someone bounce off of it?
It reminds me of that one party I threw back some time around 1997. The one where my friend fell off the edge of the spa and ended up with a concussion, but we all thought it was so funny she fell backwards and hit the pavement, we laughed. We were too intoxicated to realize she was hurt. She was too intoxicated to realize she was hurt, too. We got lucky she wasn't more injured. And then I discovered the broken toilet seat. Who breaks a toilet seat and doesn't mention it to the hostess? The point is that it was a crazy party. The only crazy party I've ever thrown. Maybe the only crazy party I've ever been to. We talk about our adult lives as before that party and after that party. And we had fun, despite our complete irresponsibility (this was before spouses and children of course). Or maybe because of it, I don't know. But I remember it fondly nonetheless.
Well, the footprint makes me feel like that. Like I threw one of those cool, crazy parties that everyone talks about for years afterward. Except it was a toddler party. And the evidence of it isn't a great story about drunken concussions or broken toilet seats, or beer replacing the water in the spa. The only evidence is a single, tiny, muddy footprint. Makes me not want to paint over the thing. . .