I've been under my deck, screwing in lattice panels. I've been at this for weeks, thinking about how to install it, looking at You Tube videos, buying and returning and buying supplies.
And I thought I had come up with a plan to join the lattice, finish the ends, install a removable panel and make my tired deck look more finished. The first panel is on, but it's in the same shape as anything I try to do in my house: a little off, a little sloppy, and a lot undone.
Next month, I will have owned this house -- a 1938 wooden bungalow in the South -- for four years. It was an unloved beauty when I bought it. It now has a flagstone patio, three side gardens, a railing on the front porch, crown molding, a rehabbed kitchen. A healthy list of home improvements, but this home is far from finished.
It's not the house -- it's me. I can't stop thinking that if I did this or that, it would finally begin to look like one of those houses I see on HGTV. Maybe then I would feel finished, a fully formed adult. Instead, I look at this cockeyed lattice, and still feel a little off, a little sloppy and a lot undone.
I have to go wash my hair now.