My first house was a tiny Florida stucco house with a semi-open floor plan. (Please note, I'm not even sure that's a real term. It was kinda open, is what I'm getting at.) The living room, dining room and hallway were one continuous space with very little clear definition. I painted it yellow. When I say yellow, I want to be clear. I painted my house the color of the sun. The color of daffodils, the color of number two pencils, the color that Crayola calls "yellow." It kinda glowed.
And I loved it. I adored it. I got denim furniture covers and chambray curtains and had white accessories and IT WAS THE HAPPIEST ROOM ON EARTH. And I loved it.
Until I didn't. And there was a specific moment. An instant in which the switch flipped from love to loathe. I had just had a huge fight with the Ex. We were calm again, sort of made up. In that uncomfortable space where you're really over it, but you're afraid of setting the other person off again.
"Are you still mad?" the Ex asked.
"I hate the yellow," I growled. Honestly, I don't think I knew I hated it until the words were out of my mouth, but I knew in that instant it had to go and it had to go now. NOW. We immediately left to get paint chips.
We painted the living room "gypsy rose" and "pine needle" and I loved it so much that I insisted on the same colors when we moved. And I really jumped in. Since we moved, I've gotten all new living room furniture that matches, I've altered my whole room to the feel of those colors. I've really worked at it.
And I'm not finished.
And Saturday, I realized that I hate it. Again.*
Since I had (finally) gotten all the Christmas totes back to the basement and reclaimed all my floor space, I decided that it was time to rearrange the furniture. I love rearranging furniture. As I plotted and measured and tried to decide if I could live with a bookcase on the "wrong" end of the wall, I burst into tears. Because no matter where I put the damn furniture I was still going to hate the colors, the plaid sofa, the "farmhouse" look that I've been going for the last three years or so. I hate it. With the passion of a thousand suns. I want it gone right this second. Even though this time last year I was smitten with it. It's got to go.
Only this time, we're not talking about a coat of paint and some new curtains. We are talking about every piece of furniture, every item on my walls, every everything, because I have invested in this look.
I can't even properly explain how desperate I feel about this situation. It has to go. On a budget of zero, but it has to go. Because this, no matter how clinically insane it is, this is how I live. I love it until I hate it.
But the lesson that I have learned this time is that I need to anticipate my fickleness. I'm just not sure how.
*In my defense, the yellow lasted about three years and the gypsy rose has lasted a little over eight. I'm getting better. More than double. Maybe this next incarnation will make it sixteen.