The Entropy of It All

I have never cared much for physics, or more precisely, for studying physics.  I take it for granted that gravity makes the world suck and that when my body is at rest it likes to stay at rest.  To me, thermodynamics is more interesting as a spelling word than a concept.  That’s why it is so unusual that I have been preoccupied of late with entropy. 

Everywhere I go, decay calls to me.  Perhaps it is a side effect of getting older that I am tuned in to signs of deterioration and decline all around.   My husband was oblivious to the surface sheen on his favorite sports coat, but the telltale signs of having undergone too much dry cleaning drove me to distraction.   My gleaming granite countertops assault my senses, calling attention to every scratch and chip.  I have become as sensitive to sagging seat cushions and flattened pillows as the princess was to her pea.   And every crack and creak in my house leaves me fearful that the entire structure will come toppling down upon us.

I find that my life is quickly transitioning to “maintenance mode.”  Whereas I was once a creative, forward looking person with boundless energy, today I operate from a list of reparative to-dos.   My house is a constant generator of activity--not as old as me, but with far more invested in it.  Most people do not notice the gentle signs of age that they face every day, eventually blinded to chips in the paint, a loose tile here or there, or the spidery pattern of crumbling asphalt in the driveway.  I cannot seem to allow these imperfections to become “next guy’s problem”—I want to them resolved.  And I want it done now.

Just recently we undertook a project to replace a wall of windows and sliders that had long ago lost the seal in their double-paned glass.  The foggy build up between the glass layers was approximating the way the Wall Street Journal looks to me without my reading glasses.  It cast a blurry haze over the beautiful view of my yard, where endangered wildlife frequently shows up for a photo opportunity.  The new French doors were a revelation, replacing an eyesore that predated our tenure in this house with a bright shiny gaze upon acres and acres of Nature.  But the second the paint on the trim was dry I could no longer stand the rough-hewn, water stained boards that lined the walls around the doors.  Painting these boards—with which we had lived for 15 years—was now a priority that kept me awake at night.  I managed to convince my favorite handyman to spend his day off with us, priming and painting this room.  Unfortunately, he got a glimpse of the rest of my lengthy to-do list and will no longer return my calls.  Thanks to a DIY father, when it comes to home repairs I can be somewhat self-sufficient.   I am forever raiding the local Home Depot for grout and spackle and caulk as I attempt to erase settling cracks, remove dents and secure lose tiles.  Out, damned spot!

It does not take a physicist or a therapist to figure out that my obsession with keeping my house looking new mirrors the fear of my own advancing age.  It is so easy to replace a rotted window sash, or upgrade a kitchen faucet.  But what can be done about the knobs that are beginning to appear in my arthritic finger joints?  Unlike the leaky toilet, or the drywall patch after repairing the frozen pipes, there is no “handyman” that can promise to make my sticky knees good as new.   I am resisting the awareness of my body's perpetual state of decay.  If I cannot restore my own ravages of time, at least I can repair the ones that envelope me.

So, dear husband, indulge me while I strip the front door of its seven layers so that it can receive a fresh coat of paint.  Don’t fight me when I assign you grease-stripping tasks that are near the ceiling where only you can reach.  Forgive my need to replace all the wall switches so they reflect more modern equipment.  Pardon me when I start an improvement project on the weekend and drag you into it with me.   These are not idle tasks; they are necessary ones.   I am waging a personal war against the laws of physics.  I am determined to prove, one way or another, that deterioration is not inevitable.   I will bring order to that which is in disarray.  The laws of matter do not matter--because ignorance of physics is bliss.