In the End, I Really Don’t Want to Know

I’m ashamed to admit that I nagged my husband about painting the back room for months before we finally dug into the project. I had purchased the paint and brushes around New Year’s, but they sat, untouched, in the garage. Patrick finally agreed to get it done after I threatened to complete the project, alone, while he took our boisterous toddler out of the house for a day.

So, last March, we cracked the cans and turned on the fans during nap time. I carefully taped and painted the trim, while Patrick applied a few coats to the walls. Although he completed the project, he clearly hated every minute of it. (I’m lucky he loves me enough to endure such torture for me.)

Instead of asking him to touch up the spots that needed another coat, I cracked a can one night and touched them up myself.

To my horror, the can was a mis-tint; it clearly wasn’t the same color as the walls we had painstakingly coated days before.

After another few months of glaring at the walls, I decided I had better finish the job. (There was no way that Patrick was going near a paint brush. He claimed that no one could possibly notice the spots, and in his mind, the task was done.) I painted the entire surface of the walls, finishing the can of paint, and returned to the store to buy another.

I asked the patient man at the counter to double check our account on the computer to be sure that I was buying the right color, praying that this time, the paint would all match.

That’s when the paint guy discovered that he had accidentally mixed AC-004 instead of AC-005 last January, thus creating the spots of mis-colored walls. I had painted the spots with the wrong color.

I didn’t swear. I didn’t even roll my eyes. I took my can home, and finished painting the walls where the spots of AC-004 had been mocking me for so long.

Three out of the four walls in the back room are now AC-004 instead of AC-005. If you come over, and notice, please don’t tell me.

We don’t plan to ever paint it again.


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