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The following week, after I drop my husband off at the
airport, I stop by Home Depot and stumble upon a gallon of gorgeous tan paint sitting on the 'Oops' table for just five bucks. I thank God for the OCD person who returned it because it wasn't 'exactly what she wanted', interpret this as a clear sign of confirmation, pay the cashier, go home and immediately start moving the
furniture. That night, with tucking kids in bed behind me, I call Karrie. Within
minutes she knocks quietly on the door wearing paint-splattered shorts and an old
T-shirt with splotches of dried up sage greens, brilliant whites and midnight navys all over it.
The sense of conspiracy is exacerbated by our whispering as
we spread out the drop cloths and lay out the paint, the roller and the
brushes. She hands me the big roller along with a few simple tips. My hands are
a bit shaky, but there is no turning back now. She volunteers for all the
cutting in and the edges, while I am in charge of the bigger job of rolling.
I think she is doing this because she is tough. She is former military. She wants to break me
in right away so I understand fully how difficult the job really is. This would
paint an accurate and realistic picture for all my future aspirations and expectations.
I fumble at first, mainly because I feel like I am treading
on forbidden ground that is dedicated to professionals only. But, by the time
we get to the third wall, I get a hang of it and feel like a pro. We are finished in record time and I cant’ believe
my eyes.
The room is transformed from a dingy useless appendix into a cozy,
inviting space waiting to be filled with books, and comfortable furniture and
friends old and new, where we will spend hours together discussing lofty ideas and solving
all world’s problems holding warm cups of freshly brewed lemongrass tea in our hands. 
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