I’ve always assumed that I have great taste, that picking out paint and a decent piece of furniture would be as natural to me as choosing something appetizing to eat.
It turns out that I can make a previously established space better, but when handed a blank slate I can only think of one statement and one question: I want to cry. Would the fetal position be too dramatic?
Perhaps it is this exact reaction that caused the previous owner of our home to do absolutely nothing with the place. When we took over there was not one speck of paint, not one modification or change from the way the home was built. It was just endless walls of cream. In fact, in the three years she owned it, she only lived it in for one and a half years and then it sat empty. Perhaps she just couldn’t face her own design failure.
It looked like this:
Before we even moved one piece of furniture in, we painted. We couldn’t stand the thought of setting up residence with Mr. White-Bread Walls and his wife Mrs. Milk Carton Carpet.
So we painted the fireplace: instant warmth.
We splashed a rusty, reddish brown onto one wall in the entry way to help people make the right choice when they are deciding, “DO I want to come in?”
Finally, after literally nine swatches were painted on the wall for comparison, we painted the dining room. This is where my commitment-phobia caused Mike to want to have me committed. Nine swatches? Of course. It has to be the right green, after all.
Hello, gorgeous green. Thank you for giving my guests back their appetite.
After those victories, everything came to a screeching halt. Christmas, New Years, this excuse, that excuse…and now we’re facing The Den. The den of wolves. The den that threatens to be my undoing.
I am the type of person who only wants two choices. I can (nearly) always make a two-choice decision; anything more than that and I’m immobilized. For instance, when I’m at the grocery store and I see seventeen brands of toilet paper, the person on the intercom has to call out, “Clean up on aisle four. We’ve got a commitment-phobe down. I repeat, commitment-phobe down.” They always come running with defibrillators.
So here is The Den now:
It’s acting as storage until we make it into a workable space. And the white, orb-like cone plugged into the wall? That’s a vacuum cleaner my sweet mother-in-law gave us that I use far more than I ever thought I would.
The idea is for this to be my writing room; the place where my creativity flows and words spill out of my fingertips.
It’s also where I’ll pay the bills. But that’s not as glamorous as creativity.
I’m dreaming of taking everything out, wallpapering one wall, hanging a cool chandelier, adding an extra chair and an attractive houseplant to liven the place.
But that’s where you come in. Send me your ideas. Give me your insight. Tell me your genius design plan. I promise to put it all to work and show you the results in a future post.
We’ll see what works, what doesn’t, and what causes me an anxiety attack. Mostly, we’ll just see if the medics can restart my heart in time for me to make a decision.