Proof is in the painting

Many years ago, before my husband and I were married — I made a fatal mistake. I was still feeling the after-burn of a college class — Women in History — and Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinem and Billy Jean King were still inspiring and impacting my thoughts and thought processes.

I was woman, and I wanted to roar.

I should have just mewed and left it at that — there’s something to be said for being the socalled weaker sex.

Jim and I bought a house before we were married — he lived in it, I stayed in the comfort and already rehabbed home I grew up in. The idea was that Jim would gut the kitchen and do the fixer-upper things before we got married. So for a year he worked hard getting the house ready — and I was his trusted helper (in my mind, anyway).

I remember thinking then that it was important that I watch and learn — just in case… (how prophetic that turned out the be). But, I also wanted to contribute. So when some heavy lifting needed to be done, I volunteered so that he could concentrate on the work. My then-fiancé, still in the protective stage (or Neanderthal?) was adamant that I couldn’t carry the lumber myself. I was too weak. Hmmm. Really?

And this is where I made a mistake that would come back to bite me too many times to count. If there was ever a remark I wanted to take back, it was this one.

“A woman can do anything a man can do.” Stupid, stupid me. Here’s the thing — I really do believe that a woman can indeed accomplish whatever a man does — it just might not be the same execution. Where a man might use brute strength to lift something, a woman will rely on her intelligence, resourcefulness and ingenuity to accomplish the same thing (usually that means convincing a man to lift the object). If the end result is the desired result, then what does it matter how that result was achieved by either gender?

The real issue is — does she (meaning me) really want to do everything a man can do — if she (again, me) doesn’t have to?

Holy heck, why would I want to lift and carry and 40-pound piece of lumber? I wouldn’t — not even if Betty, Gloria and Billy Jean were empowering me to just do it. So, why would I hand my husband the best weapon he ever needed?

Because I was young and naïve. And stupid.

So, flash-forward 25 years, and I ask my husband to clean out the shed of stuff we don’t use (which was just about everything). Before he completed said assignment, he made sure to ask (while chortling) me, “I thought a woman can do anything a man can do?” While I knew he was kidding and was happy to do whatever chore I asked of him…that statement always prompted me to help him, or learn from him, whenever he was doing a DIY project.

I’ll never build furniture like he did (a kitchen table, 2 TV stands, kitchen cabinets and even a loft bed) but I can take care of the basic issues homeowners face regularly. So, when I finally decided I couldn’t take the color of the kitchen any longer, I put myself to work.

Jimmy was terrific at picking out paint colors for the walls — but even Ted Williams didn’t bat .1000. It was a swing and miss for the kitchen walls. A deep burgundy/red. I hated it as soon as the first coat was on. I hated it more after the second. But, like a good and appreciative wife, knowing how much work he put into it and how much he seemed to love the color, I just agreed that it was a terrific choice. Ugh. A few weeks before Jimmy died we had an argument. I can’t remember what it was about (minor stuff), but I used that moment to tell him that I hated the color of the kitchen, always hated it and will never, ever like it.

To my surprise he said, “Me too, I just didn’t have the energy to change it when I first did it.”

He never got around to repainting, so I decided I’d do it.

There I was, being stupid again.

I decided that I needed to prove to myself I could indeed take care of this (and in a sense, all things related to the house) — and that I had learned enough from Jimmy over the years that I could do it easily. And, tons of women everyday paint their walls and enjoy these DIY projects.

Spoiler alert: I am not one of those women.

I will never, ever paint a room again.

I took time off, researched; agonized over paint chips; collected about 1,000 of those paint chips; decided on a color; changed my mind; decided on a color; decided to do an accent wall, which meant picking another color; researched how to do an accent wall; measured and then measured 2 or 3 more times (applying that philosophy of measure twice, cut once) that wall and figure out stripe configurations; spent a small fortune on paints, primer, rollers, brushes, tarps, and eventually takeout food (which I never, ever do but I had neither the time, space or energy to prepare food for my family); cleaned the walls and the ceiling; taped up everything (proper taping is key!). Finally, it was time to paint.

Over the course of our marriage my husband must have painted each room at least three times, some rooms four. And each time, he splattered, smudged or rolled wall color on the white ceiling. It drove me crazy. I didn’t know then I was being way too critical.

I was just about to convince myself that those splotches of corn stalk (a beautiful pale yellow) and brushed sage (accent color) looked nice on the ceiling and gave the stark whiteness some character, when Sue stopped by.

Sue is a teacher — and loves redoing (aka painting, wall papering) rooms during the summer. Loves it. Has been doing it for years.

I now think she’s crazy, but a few weeks ago, her expertise was invaluable.

She stopped by just when I was at my breaking point — ready to pack the bags and move to a colorless apartment away from the people I love so I wouldn’t take out my anger and frustration on them.

Sue picked up a small brush, grabbed the ceiling paint, jumped up on the step ladder and corrected all my mistakes.

Now, my kitchen looks beautiful. It’s fitting also that it’s green and gold (well, brushed sage and corn stalk) — I think Jimmy would have loved these colors. A thousand times better than that awful burgundy/red.

As I was sloshing the paint on the walls — a pang of anger crept through me that Jimmy wasn’t here with us anymore, and that a lot of his chores/duties are falling to me.

But then, just as quickly, I thought, at least I’m able and capable of handling these things myself. When your partner in life is suddenly and unexpectedly gone, having the confidence and strength to carry on yourself is way more valuable then a perfectly painted kitchen.

But more importantly, at that moment of realization, it confirmed something I always knew — it’s way better to hire someone else to do the heavy lifting.