My True Colors, Not So Beautiful

My True Colors, Not So Beautiful

Today — for the first time in over a week — I ventured out to our land. Our house is officially “dried in;” the windows have been installed; the electrical wiring is almost completed. As I looked around at my husband’s progress, the reality of our impending move sank in and I went into Martha Stewart overdrive. An hour later found me standing in Lowe’s cabinetry section, flipping through racks of samples while trying to find the perfect wood to complement our kitchen.

“How ’bout this one?” I asked, pointing to a knotty birch.

My husband just looked at me a minute. “But you said you don’t like knots…remember? You think they’re too rustic.”

I smiled and rapped the wood with a knuckle. “Well, I do now.”

We went over to the countertops.

“Look at this granite!” I exclaimed, running my hands over the smooth rock. “See those goldish swirls? They’d go perfectly with the cabinets!”

Shuddering, Randy said, “I like Formica.”

We went over to the flooring. Thankfully, we both agreed on laminate over wood since the latter scuffs too easily. But then he likes gouges and I like ripples.

The door section is always a tricky one to traverse. I gravitate toward front doors with curlicues of inlaid iron and triangles of shimmering glass. My husband gravitates toward doors that are simple as a Quaker’s. Then you’ve got the whole real wood versus Plexiglas debate. The salesman said wooden doors will warp into a C if they’re not treated correctly. I stood there trying to picture this for a while, but couldn’t. He must have a stronger imagination than I.

After getting a $2,500 quote (for just a front door!), my husband and I walked over to the lighting section. If you’ve ever read my post, “Marriage: Where There’s No Cheapskatin’ on Compromise,” you’ll know this is where Randy and I had an argument over a dragonfly fixture before. This time, though, he was the one picking out outdoor lighting that was too fancy for my taste.

“I don’t like how it does that curly thing at the bottom.” I gestured to the offended design and wrinkled my nose. “It looks Victorian or something.”

Putting the box back on the shelf, Randy sighed and said, “Woman, I can’t figure you out.”

We decided to finish with the painting section: the area where my husband and I differ more than any other. Even the way we decorate ourselves is completely different. I love vibrant Gypsy jewelry and girlish frills, eclectic styles and colorful layering. He likes simple clothing (gray and cotton, cotton and gray) that can be donned in seconds like a fireman and would wear jeans to weddings if I let him out the door.

So, when I pulled out the swatches I loved — Irish Tea, Desert Carnation, Copper Hide, Ancient Olive, Hazy Jade, Rio Grande Mud, Buckskin Pony — he about fainted.

“Aren’t we going to have at least one room that’s neutral?” he cried.

I nodded and passed him a swatch. “Yep. That’s Buckskin Pony…practically tan.”

He just raised his eyebrows.

Randy said, “The person that lives there is some box company owner or something.”

I looked over my shoulder. “You mean he’s going to live in that huge place alone!”

“How sad.”

I reached for Randy’s hand.

My husband moved his calloused thumb across the top of mine and smiled.

For the rest of the drive, I thought about that empty mansion on the bluff and realized I would rather live in a shack painted gray than in a colorful palace alone.