Neglected banisters

On my morning walk in a proud and kempt suburban neighborhood, I came upon a house as nice as the others except for one thing. There was a kind of widow's walk (though we are nowhere near the sea) whose banister was of wood rather than iron, and the wood was badly peeling and splintered; it was an eyesore.

I wondered why the owners did not fix the problem, which, small as it was (I estimated approximately three feet by seven feet of scraping, sanding, and painting), was able to mar the beauty of the whole house, and diminish the attractiveness of the whole neighborhood.

Then I realized (because of the "neglected banisters" in my own life) what had happened here. The residents no longer even see the problem. They had seen it at first and thought of doing the repairs. But as they thought and thought and took no action, a little job became a mountain and a load of condemnation.

The tragedy is that, in fact, thinking about work that needs to be done is much more wearying than just doing the work. One solid morning could right both the cute little pastel colored cottage and the owners. The one would have a pretty new apron, and the other, a long forestalled freedom from a bit of emotional clutter.