The Blue Door

Yesterday, I painted my front door blue. Yes, it was somewhat pinterest inspired but it was more than that too. Isn’t it always? Over the years I’ve come to understand that whenever someone does something or says some declaratively, it’s not the end of the story. It’s really only the beginning. Like when a politician of some sort states that they’ll never run for presidency…it’s actually the beginning of their campaign.

When I finished painting the door, and the brushes and drop clothes were put away, the project may have been done, but it was just the beginning of my story. The beginning of the middle of my story. If my life is a three part play, painting the front door blue would be the opening of ACT II.

Here’s my conversation with my mom a few days before painting the door. She and I talk daily. Mainly just debrief each other on the here and now. She

picked up the phone after two rings.

“Hi Mom,” I said.

“Hey Honey, what are you doing today?” she asked.

“I’m painting my front door blue”.

“Car, you don’t have time or money to be painting your front door blue.” I imagined her shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head with that “What-the-hell-is-she thinking?” look on her face.

“I have to Mom, it’s psychological, its like-“

“Do whatcha gotta do,” she said intentionally cutting short my tyrannical burst of reasons that she knew she couldn’t apprehend. Then, with her mastery of diverting discussion asked if I had seen the ads about the sale at Carsons.

So in addition to a visual transition into the middle bits of my story, it also tamed “my nuts” (my nuts is my nickname for my anxiety). The name of the paint color is “Deep Breath” which exactly described the symbolism of painting the door in the first place. My nuts needed to see a different color door on the same house.

See, I had lived in my house for nine years. The first four years the door was white. The second five years the door was red. And then due to much anticipated circumstances I moved out of the house and into a townhouse approximately three miles away. I lived there for a year and a half, before taking a giant deep breath and moving back into my old house. Painting the door was my way to change it, so I wouldn’t feel that I was going back to live more of the same.

It’s been almost two weeks. I am still not used to the color. I think I like it. Other people compliment it. This project though, was different from the others.

Perhaps my tranformation wasn’t reflected by the same old outside. I needed to change that too. Taking a deep breath, painting the door the color of a perfect night, and moving back to my old digs sounds like a great way to begin the second Act.