This Odd House

I have this habit of ignoring the voices in my head. I suppose it wouldn't be such a bad thing, except that sometimes those voices are the articulation of my gut instincts. The other day, my voices were telling me this:

Are you sure you want to paint your house that particular shade of blue? It looks lovely in the Sherwin Williams color book, but isn't it possible that it might take on more of a purple hue when slathered all over your house?

And

Maybe you should spot test it first, just to see?

But listening to the voices requires work, and it's so much easier just to rely on blind faith like the martyr that I am.

Today I came back from the grocery store to a house that glistened majestically in the autumn sun. My sigh was carried by the shrug of my shoulders. Oh, well, I said. I thought this might happen.

My mom says I never listen. My husband says I don't hear. Lest they think that I am selectively ignoring them, I am submitting for public record the fact that I don't even pay attention to my own thoughts half the time.

On a positive note, the paint is still wet, which means there is potential for it to dry a darker shade than its current purple manifestation. I am nothing if not hopeful. The quality of the work is good, so we've got that going for us, too. Even if our house becomes known as the town oddity, with much pointing and laughing accompanying each drive-by, at least it's a clean paint job.

We can't afford another coat. The way it dries is the way it is. Thus, I smile, and I nod, and I grow to like it. The haphazard way I live each day pretty much forces me to embrace all life's imperfections.