When Kym and I moved into our home three years ago, the first thing I did was rip the ugliest effing freeze I had ever seen off the lounge room wall. It then took me twelve months of "free afternoons" to paint the kitchen and living areas in our home. I painted one wall at a time and every time I finished a wall I felt a surge of pride. I would stand with a cup of tea and admire my work. And I would make Kym do the same (the admiring, not the painting. I am a control freak at heart and was sure he "wouldn't do it right"). I would tell him how much better it looked than the colour it was before and he would always agree and tell me how clever I am. That, my friends, is love. Staring at a blank, beige wall and calling your girlfriend a saint.
When I was a kid, I talked my parents into painting the hallway, kitchen, bathroom and even their own bedroom with sponges and rags and all kinds of crazy patterns just because I loved doing it so very much and wanted our family home to reflect where we were at. My old bedroom still has the dreamy blue cloud thing going on. It still makes me smile.
Painting a room completely changes the space and the items in it. When I painted our living spaces, the forest-green curtains suddenly weren't so offensive and our tacky yellowed-wood wall started to make sense.
The best thing?
Our home became ours.
For the last two years, I've been putting off painting our bedroom and dressing room. I'm not sure why, because looking at my "spanish white" kitchen still gives me a rush.
And no, I am not ashamed to share my love for painted walls with the world. Painted walls make me happy.
What's in your happiness file today?