Is it just me, or does there come a moment in every DIY room painting project when it just seems like the worst idea ever?
More poorly conceived than that time you tried to color your own hair, or your ill-fated first marriage to the Texan who never laughed, or even your decision to skip childbirth classes and just wing it, sans epidural or clue, through the 14 hours of labor it took to deliver your first child (because how hard could it be?).
When the bedroom you’re painting – solidly “medium” sized at best, according to all of the paint calculators, two cans’ worth at most, with its modest single door and two windows – swells to the size of the entrance hall at Versailles?
When the room – the vivid red of an Andalusian sunset; a color you yourself would never have picked and a color whose intensity spurred your irresistible compulsion to paint over it ASAP – resists every coat of concealing primer like a living, fighting thing?
When it dawns on you that this particular retina-burning shade of red probably originated from the limited-edition Sherman-Williams “screw-you scarlet” collection? When you realize there is not enough concealing primer in the world to erase the muscle memory of your thousands of roller passes back and forth over those mocking crimson walls?
When professional painters suddenly strike you, along with police officers and child care professionals, as some of the most underpaid and underappreciated members of our society? When you would give your cramped right arm to have the job done right now in even a somewhat satisfactory way?
When you actually start to ponder leaving the streaky, drippy, half-red/half-white room exactly as is and calling it a triumph of gutsy decorating panache?
Or is it just me?