(~4 minutes to read)
How well do you know the ceilings of the various rooms in your house? Are they stippled; smooth; papered-and-painted; peeling; “popcorn”ed; patterned using a comb?
Several groups of people likely have a head start in the ceiling familiarity game. Here are a few that spring to mind.
Insomniacs spend a lot of time staring upward, although for a large percentage of the time, they’d be doing so in the dark, so their knowledge of their ceilings would be comparable to, say, a nocturnal hiker’s knowledge of the landscape either side of the trails he walks.
The inferior (in the positional sense) partner indulging in coitus might stare at the ceiling if he or she is—how should I phrase this—an unengaged participant. Occasionally, and especially if prompted, the stare might be accompanied by some moaning—perhaps words to the effect of, “when are you going to paint this bloody ceiling?”
The long-term bedridden are perhaps the most intimately acquainted with their ceilings, although unless their beds are moved from room to room, “ceiling” should probably be in the singular.
Then there are apartment dwellers with noisy neighbours in the unit above them, although their upwards stares are carried out with x-ray vision so they can see what the heck is causing that infernal racket!
And there are acute back pain sufferers.
This past fortnight (for Western Atlanticans, that’s two weeks), I had the opportunity to become reacquainted with the ceilings of some of the rooms in the Hatchery. After nearly fourteen years of problem-free spine husbandry, some nerves in the region of my L4-5 joint got pinched and rendered me unable to sit or stand for more than thirty seconds or so.
Just think what everyday activities those limitations impinge upon.
Even lying down was painful—but this piece isn’t about fishing for sympathy!
So, with a couple of blue camping sleep mats under me, I spent several days contemplating our bedroom ceiling. A physio recommended icing my back frequently, so Mrs. H slid an icepack under me every couple of hours for twenty minutes.
Do you have any idea how long twenty minutes can be when your butt is getting second stage frostbite?
Fortunately, Mrs. H would remove the ice pack each time. If she hadn’t, then by day four or five, I’d have been getting up close and personal with the ceiling.
Once the back pain had subsided sufficiently to allow me to put a thought together, I started trying to identify shapes in the ceiling’s popcorn texture. There’s a neat sheep-looking pattern above the dressing table, which I named “Dolly” after the first ever cloned sheep. Nearer to the ceiling fan there’s what could be either a Tasmanian Devil or a turkey baster. In astronomy, I’d be identifying constellations—what would this linking of popcorn pieces be called? Con-kernelation?
While examining the ceiling fan’s environs, I noticed a couple of dead flies in the light globe. How did they get there—it’s a semi-sealed unit! They must have wanted to go to fly heaven very much if they worked that hard to go toward the light! Let this be a lesson to people who think that going toward the light is a desirable aspiration—look what it does for moths.
After a few days, I needed a change of scenery, so I hobbled my way downstairs and into the family room. After a few hours, and being fully medicated with anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxants, I discovered that the entire Northern hemisphere’s night sky had been reproduced on our ceiling! Was this by chance, or was it a building contractor with an astronomy bent leaving his “signature”? I crawled on my hands and knees to the dining room, and sure enough, there was the same pattern, except now, the planets had been added, and Saturn’s rings were freaky neon colours!
I called Mrs. H. and asked her to verify my discoveries. It was at that point she realized she’d over-medicated me. In my disabled condition, I was unable to get in the car to go to Urgent Care for a pump-out, so she tried one of her granny’s home remedies on me.
One can of diet coke and a couple of mentos later, the remnants of the meds were forced northwards, accompanied by much of the rest of the content of my stomach. They erupted out of my mouth into the bowl that had appeared beside me. A few hours later, my northern hemisphere disappeared.
It sometimes takes being temporarily disabled to understand how much we take for granted. Other than going for physio, I haven’t been out of the house for ten days. Mrs. H belongs to a large number of choirs (six at the last count), so she goes out a few evenings each week. And each time I heard the slamming of the door, Kenny Rogers’ Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town would play in my head. Except of course, it was only her love for singing that she’s taking to town.
Fortunately, I’m on the mend now, although the meds are still messing with my head.
Note to self; re-read and edit this piece when I’m “clean”.