Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Paint It White

I thought I could do it myself.
I thought I could stand there with my paint brush
and my plastic tray and get the whole thing done in a night.
I underestimated the nooks and crannies and contortions
I needed to put myself in to reach inside of cabinets
and get under shelves and behind refrigerators.
I thought I could make it all new again.
Shiny and white
and perfect.
Like one of those kitchens you’d see in Better Homes and Gardens.
That’s what I wanted.
Gleaming silver knobs and hinges
and white,
white
faces staring back at me.
And people asking me,
“Who painted your kitchen?” and I’d say,
“I did it myself.”
And they’d stare at me in amazement,
and ask if I’d be willing to paint theirs next.
I wanted to say all that,
but I can’t.
This morning my back is aching.
No,
hurting,
and that’s after doing the inside of only one cabinet.
It still needs a second coat.
My great idea to fix up my kitchen for under $200
is in serious trouble.
I am trying not to feel discouraged
or that I made a mistake,
or that I bit off more than I can chew,
but I did.
I wanted to do it by myself,
to save my kitchen from its faded blue ugliness,
to walk in the sun,
to be my own heroine,
like Scarlett O’Hara,
tearing down drapes
and making proclamations.
I envisioned myself re-grouting bathtubs,
and re-finishing floors,
and even hanging curtain rods.
I’d be a force of womanly nature and nothing could stop me.
But my brush is outside in the laundry sink,
soaking in paint thinner and water
and hardening with each minute.
And the truth is,
I have no desire to go pick it up again.
I am done.
Finished.
I wanted to save my kitchen
from its faded self.
But I can’t.
I can barely stand up
and take out the trash.