In buying a new home, a suburban newly constructed blank canvas with an olfactory presence of new car and visual cues from a Barbie Dream McMansion, I under estimated the struggle to establish my style. My Pinterest boards were filled with colorful, soul filled rooms. Rooms that let my inner vamp run wild. I daydreamed of a new life in my new house. It would be serene. It would be chic. It would be oh so perfect. Yet, the reality of my white washed home kept intruding; details like the new car smell, the shape of each room, the bland molding, the modern plastic windows. My Pinterest posts oozed an architectural flair that would exist even if the rooms were stripped bare. Their bones were resplendent. The bones in my new home were bleached and brittle, cold and echoing. I started to concede my home would not be a magazine spread. But I would be damned if it wouldn't be MINE. I held myself as a modern Scarlet O'Hara and declared "As God is my witness they're are not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when its all over, I'll never be hungry again...for COLOR."
Zoom in to a crazed woman attaching paint chips to a wall. OVER and OVER. She decides on a color. She un-decides. Re-decides. Revises. Reacquires paint chips. Repeats. Starts again. Decides. Wait? She decided? Yes. She did. Really Teal.
With a small measure of self doubt, I tossed the paint chip to the Sherwin Williams clerk and nervously bit my nails as he headed into the back to mix. What have I done? What if it isn't right? I took a deep breath. Girl, you can't go back now.
And I am so glad that I didn't.
sofa: Raymour Flanigan
pillows: turkish killim pillows: https://www.etsy.com/shop/BAHEKILIMPILLOW