We painted our dining room over the weekend. I had spent months waffling over a paint color. I wanted something similar to the buff color on the rest of our walls, but maybe a little darker. The purpose of painting was less to change the color and more to begin the task of repainting our entire house — a task that I estimate will take nine years — because the paint that the builder used is so cheap that it seems to chip off the walls if we look at it funny. Anyway, I finally made my choice. Oat Cake. I actually preferred Arabian Sands, but the name Oat Cake sounded so pleasantly Midwestern that it swayed me.
I started painting while Greg taught his tae kwon do class. Within a few minutes, I saw that this task would be a challenge because Oat Cake was not a slightly darker version of our current shade, as I had thought. No, it was the exact same shade. I could not have matched the shade better if I tried. This made it nearly impossible to discern what had been painted.
When Greg got home, he asked me which parts I had already painted. I told him to guess. He gazed at the walls, dumbfounded.
“We’re painting it the exact same color?” he asked, a touch of annoyance in his voice.
I tried to convince him that even with the same color, the new coat of paint would infinitely improve the appearance of the room. Greg grabbed the roller and got to work. I blabbered on to pass the time, talking about how it was actually a blessing to use the same color because everything in the room was tan — the walls, the carpet — we didn’t even have to worry about dripping paint because no one would be able to tell.
“Oh!” Greg exclaimed as I finished my babbling. I looked down from the trimming I had been doing along the ceiling. Greg had just hit the roller against our green couch, which we had parked in our entryway and neglected to cover. Yeah, the tan paint didn’t blend in there.
“Greg!” I shouted. “That’s not funny! Geez, I didn’t mean that you should actually get paint everywhere. You did that on purpose!”
“No, I didn’t,” Greg said.
“That’s not funny,” I said, though I was amused. “It’s not funny to ruin our couch.”
“I swear it was an accident,” Greg said.
Lucky for Greg, the paint washed out of the couch. I still think Greg did it on purpose. And I am (secretly) amused.