I cracked my knuckles first, releasing the pressure in the joints. My hand grasped the gun's cold metal, its weight heavy by my side and my finger curled around the trigger. A long, deep sigh escaped my lungs as I stared down at the enemy.
The old, moldy caulk around the bathtub had met its match. It lay defeated in the bottom of the tub, tiny fragments littered everywhere.
Straddling the edge of the tub, I pointed the caulking gun at the now stripped seal at the base of the tile and squeezed the trigger, guiding the white substance along the wall. With a few long, careful swipes of my finger, the caulk was pressed into a smooth, water-tight seal.
Once all three sides of the tub were finished, I stood back, gun at my side, hands splattered with drying and cracking caulk, and gazed at my handywork. Bob Vila, eat your heart out.
I feel:
accomplished
