This past Monday I took Isla to an antique mall in search of a few pieces we need for our new house, primarily a dresser for her room. My hope was to find something that was a certain size - taller rather than wide - and something I could paint to this “rosewood” color of her room. Something that looked old and well made but clean, without too much frill. As we walked from booth to booth, a few caught my eye but didn’t really hit home.
“We’ll know it when we see it,” I told her.
At about three booths to last, there it was. The size, shape, clean look, just enough character, was all there. More than that, I knew. That’s the one. That belongs in our home. That’s ours.
It would have been simpler if the color was something that wouldn’t work for us at all, something easy to want to paint over, but it happened to be this gorgeous rich blue that would look amazing in basically any area of the house except Isla’s room.
The next day I picked it up and got it settled into the house and began my deliberation of whether to keep it blue in a different space or to paint it for Isla’s room as intended.
Why did it have to be just this blue?
Why aren’t decisions always clear and easy?
Also Tuesday, the day I brought the dresser home, my divorce was finalized. By now, as of last year sometime between finding out about the affair and filing for divorce, I’d let go of any desire to be with that man ever again. The idea makes me want to laugh and throw up at the same time, to be honest.