My uncle, who is eighty some years old, claims he can still do anything he could do when he was forty. I can, too—but I have to sing while I’m at it. The lyrics to the songs are Groan and Ugh! and Ouch! and other four letters.

I am singing these songs while I roll paint over the living room walls and cut in the edges with a brush. Climbing the ladder makes me sort of hum a bit, but getting up and down off the floor can inspire arias coloring the air blue. And the baseboard needs three coats of semi-gloss. That’s a lot of getting up and down. Painting isn’t the problem. It’s changing positions. I’ll be hoarse before I finish.

The living room is the biggest room in the house. I may have bitten off more than I can chew in one sitting, but if it takes me longer to finish the meal than it would have ten or twenty years ago, I also have more patience. And my friends don’t stick their noses in the air and back out at the sight of paint cans and drop cloths. The loveseat and chairs are still comfortable.

I just hope they won’t look overhead. The ceiling wants painting but I don’t want to paint the ceiling. You could say I’m not UP to it.