The Hardest Thing I Have to Tell My Husband
I love my husband.
In addition to my love of Justin, my husband, I love color.
My favorites are pink, duh, and blue… but of course! I love lipstick, red primarily, and frosty nudes.
I am a creative.
Also, I am a talker.
I am pretty high maintenance, but I believe myself to be low maintenance, which translates to VERY high maintenance.
And I am good with this.
I have been married to Justin for 26 years and 9 months. We are happily married, for the most part. We have our “things.” But honestly, who doesn’t? I mean really, it does no good for anyone, anywhere for me to pretend things are perfect.
Perhaps, this blog post will be the bridge between the broken marriages and the “perfect” ones. Those that covet the Joneses, because, “They are just so adorable! Sooooo in love.”
We are not the Joneses.
However, we are very much in love.
I pray this won’t change. Nevertheless, there is trouble on the horizon. As I compose this message to you, I am keeping a very dark secret from my husband.
Actually, it isn’t literally dark. It is technically, “New Age Blue.”
That is the color I picked to paint the accent wall in our front entry.
Justin and I aren’t the kind of couple that “lets” each other do things. I cringe at the thought. I tried to be that wife. My churchy gal-pals were all doing it so, I tried to comply. This lasted about 28 minutes. I think I said, “Can I go to the mall with my sister?” Justin, looked up from the television and said, “What? Are you asking me? Or do you need a ride?” And I said, “No? I am asking you.” He frowned and said, “What am I, your dad?”
No, I would not buy a car or take a vacation without first talking to Justin, but I am an adult and so is he.
We are a team. Husband and wife. Partners. Committed to each other. We make decisions together. Till death do us part.
Still, due to a series of events, of my own conception, I am not allowed to paint.
I mean, I can use acrylics on my canvas creations and jewelry. But house painting, I lost that privilege a long time ago. Also, I am not allowed to hang pictures, wreaths, light fixtures, or general wall décor.
And I get it.
I am not good at these things.
Alas, I have an inflated understanding of my abilities and am easily distracted by shiny things and apparently, the color New Age Blue.
As I sit here looking at the mess I have made and carefully attempt to formulate the words I know I will have to say, I am fully cognizant of why I lost my painting privileges. The permeant dent in our oldest son, John’s, head, is all the reminder I need for why I don’t know where Justin hides the hammer and nails.
That guilt prevents me from even trying. I tell Justin where to hang it. He hangs it. Honestly, if I tell Justin what to paint, he does that too. But New Age Blue, that would have been a battle. He just can’t see it until it is done and sometimes that takes some convincing, also a four-course meal and some other unmentionables I won’t list those here. (But here is my chocolate chip cookie recipe.)
Listen, I eluded to the desire for a blue accent wall right before he left for 4 days on a business trip.
I said, “Do we have any blue interior wall paint?” and he said, “Why would we? We don’t have any blue walls.”
These words were spoken in the 1,300 square foot studio/office space on the second story of our home. Justin and I spend about 12 hours a day in that space, and it is… blue.
Every square inch of that space is blue.Perhaps, this blog post will be the bridge between the broken marriages and the “perfect” ones. Those that covet the Joneses, because, “They are just so adorable! Sooooo in love.”Click To Tweet
So, when he left on this trip, I decided, he probably wouldn’t even notice if I painted a 7-foot by 10-foot wall in our entryway. I tossed and turned the night before. Then, I negotiated the pros and cons. I promised myself I would be careful. And I visualized the glamour that would be my front foyer in just a few short hours.
I will start my explanation to my husband with the difficult words, “You were right. I should not be allowed to paint.”
These words, words I promised myself, the last time, with a traces of “Purple Promises” on the carpet, children, myself and the neighbor’s Cocker Spaniel, they are the hardest words I have to say to my husband.
He will be mad.
And Justin doesn’t really get mad.
He will storm about. He will clean up and try to fix all that is wrong with my deliberate insubordinate behavior. I can only pray this time won’t be his last straw.
In my defense, Justin is a paint tyrant. And I know that word is harsh, but it is very accurate. He “tries” to let other people paint, but he is incapable of letting go. If he so much as hears the rattle of a can of spray paint, he is like a Labrador Retriever on a mallard floating in a pond.
I have confronted him about this. And he, being the gentle man, he is, has attempted to let me or one of the children try our hand at spray paint. But inevitably a drip forms or there is an irregularity in stroke, and he can no longer hold back, and barks, “move!”
And finishes the job.
Seriously, as masterfully as the Amerine men have been able to spray paint things, one would think this ability would be a skill Justin would want to pass on to his sons. One would be wrong.
So, clean up, that is the current stage I am occupying. My tennis shoes are ruined. And this, I will never understand. when Justin finishes any painting job, he cleans the brushes, rollers, and pans to a psychotic and compulsory level of clean.
Like only serial killers clean something this thoroughly and they do that so that can’t be fingered in a murder.
So, I will have to tell him I painted. But I will not tell him that I threw away every single tool involved in the New Age Blue Painting Debacle of 2019. He will find out because the items were labeled and numbered. Also, I am pretty sure the brush and roller came over with his great, great grandfather from Prussia in 1867, in a row-boat, uphill.
They were in mint condition.
And then, I broke the rule. The one where I am not allowed to paint.
Y’all, I taped every inch of crown molding and baseboard. I laid down THREE plastic floor covers. Ones I bought, I didn’t even use one of the 14 in his “collection.” Still, here I am with a wire brush, dripping sweat, muscles screaming, trying desperately to get the blue paint off the walnut stained hardwood floors.
There is New Age Blue on the ceiling, in my hair, on the cat, and the kitchen sink is stained with it. I decided to try and “fix” the “bleed” with a can of paint I found in the garage marked, “interior paint.” But it was not a match, so now one of the corner walls next to the blue wall, is “Dirty Martini.” And that is not the color that goes there.
And someone please explain this to me.
When I took off my shirt, which miraculously didn’t have any paint on it, the left boob cup of my bra was covered in, you guessed it, New Age Blue Paint. It looks like I was manhandled by a Smurf. Maybe that should be the allegation?
By the time you read this, my husband, love of my life, will be on his way home.
At this point there is very little else I can do to deceive him. It will not be pretty.
He will sense something in my behavior, he may be able to smell that “fresh paint smell.” Either way, he is walking into a mess. I will tell him what I did, and I will play my last card.
If we divorce, he gets the kids.
May your floors be sticky and your walls freshly painted by someone, other than me. Love, Jami