What's in a label?

Early last week, a sense of urgency overtook me suddenly. I had a long project list, and it became crushingly clear that I could not possibly accomplish all my planned tasks in the time I had remaining. Too much Dr. Phil. Some of the things I did not get to:

• Order a wedding album (In September I will have been married for 8 years, and I have yet to order a single picture. Every once in a while sheer panic grips my soul in the middle of the night, and I call my photographer the very next day to make sure she hasn't moved. By the way - we paid for the album 8 years ago.)


• Get a pair of suit pants I bought last April tailored at the dry cleaner on my corner


• Update my resume (note to employers and Clients: I have no intention of going anywhere, trust me. I just think it's responsible to keep it updated before you forget what you've accomplished)


• Clean out my email in box


• Reorganize my linen closet


• Get three aboriginal paintings framed - I purchased them at a gallery opening at least a year ago. They've been rolled up inside my linen closet ever since.


• Get the locks on my front doors changed

With the remaining hours of my medical leave quickly seeping through my fingers, I panicked. I had to accomplish something fast. I chose a job that would bring disproportionate satisfaction, although it could not be completed alone.

After riding his bicycle home from work as he does most days, Terry had not even put his knapsack down when I pounced, "Would you kill or maim me if I asked you to help me move all the leftover paint from the bedroom renovation project into the storage cube downstairs right now?" God love him, he replied with no hesitation, "I will not kill or maim you. I'm already sweaty - might as well just do it." (Having been in similar situations many times, he knows resistance is futile. Still, he's a saint.)

After two elevator trips to the cube and removal of everything in the storage area blocking access to the plastic tub at the very bottom (already half full of leftover tile, paint and grout for theoretical future patch jobs), I realized we didn't have a marker. "Terence, you have to wait - I have to get something so we can label these cans." Patience just about worn out, "Not now." Unassuaged, "If we don't do it now we never will, and then we might as well not keep this paint at all." Voice tight as a drum, "Ok. Go get a marker." I ran.

Minutes later, sitting on a Coleman camping stove with Sharpie in hand, I silently pondered what to write. After several quiet minutes, I voiced my concerns, "Terence, do you think it's pretentious if I label this can Master Bedroom? Our bedroom is no different from the second bedroom. It's not like it's any bigger or we have a bathroom inside. The bathroom is in the hall. Should I call it Joan and Terry's bedroom? That seems kind of strange. Like maybe there are other people living in our apartment too."

Terence got that look. I've seen it many times. It's a subtly combined flash of terror, amusement and resignation that seems to say, "I've married an insane person. What to do?"

His response was so lucid and it instantly told me I had to go back to work whether I felt ready or not, "Exactly who are you worried will think your label on an old paint can in a plastic tub at the bottom of our locked storage cube in the basement is pretentious?"

PS: I went with quotation marks to acknowledge the conceit: "Master" Bedroom