This weekend, Marcus and I decided (well, I decided, Marcus was more conscripted) to paint our entryway. We're coming up on our seven year anniversary in living in our 50 year old house, and we recently had our tired-looking exterior painted. I figured our foyer could use a little sprucing up as well.
For the first time in our history of painting walls (and Marcus will tell you that based on my whims, we've had a rather long and distinguished history of painting walls), I decided that I wanted to use a dark coloured paint. You have no idea how out-of-character this is for me: Marcus has been begging me for years to pick a colour other than pale-grey-vanilla-cream-variation-on-ivory-blue, and for some reason, this time, I couldn't agree more. We chose a slate-blue-grey, and on Saturday, we went to town.
The result is dark and moody, and because it's just a small room, and the rest of the house is light and bright, it feels sort of dramatic. I love it. And I'm a little surprised that I love it, but it feels right.
Maybe I'm reading too much into this, but every time I do something like this: decide to redecorate, do something drastic with my appearance, or change my style (an unfortunate Lucky-Star-Madonna-Electric-Boogaloo-esque period in college comes to mind), it felt like it signaled a change in perspective on the horizon. Just me? Not sure what change is coming ... something deep, maybe, something profound ...
... or you know, maybe it just means that our dingy-looking entryway walls just needed painting.
Anyway, that's how we spent our weekend. Have a great week, friends. Happy Monday.