I’ve decided to update my office. Once the decision was made, it seems I can barely sit in it anymore without finding everything dreary, dingy, outdated and worn. I’m aghast that I’ve been ensconced in this realm, thinking it was fine. The current color on the wall, painted when I moved in, over 8 years ago, was chosen for the best of all possible reasons – I had some gallons of paint left over, but for the life of me I cannot recall the original use of the two tones of . . . yes, green. I thought the room was calming, warm and inviting, and the corner seam where the two colors met was chic.
OMG, someone should have pressed the fast forward button to now, today, one full week after looking at a newly built, freshly-painted, bright, airy office space that felt elegant and sophisticated and came with the price tag to match. I was hooked, just like at a car dealership when the salesperson has you “just take a moment” in the model one or two or ten thousand dollars above what you could ever scratch out, and you realize that forever after, sitting in the lesser model, driving it around town, filling it with groceries and sports gear and your loved ones, it’s really a step down. It may be a new car for you, but your self worth and the vehicle depreciate the moment you drive off in something that doesn’t match the way you see yourself, deep down, as the person who deserves the nicer, better appointed, more luxurious one.
Turns out I want a nicer, better appointed, more luxurious office than the one I’m in. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not a pit or a dive – some people, including me, until last week, thought it was a very nice office. Just yesterday, a woman asked me how I knew how to decorate since she was quite taken with my two-tone walls and well-appointed office. I could barely contain my reaction, the split-second switch from being content and proud and happy in the space to being done, done, done with all of it: the backdrop of greens which perfectly set off the wall hangings and items I personally selected over every other possible furnishing on the planet. I was delighted in the deep red/burgundy faux suede recliner I special ordered, the country French fabric for the chair cushions, all in keeping with what I thought was country French decor. I hung two small photographs from France: painted doorways on cobblestone streets, of course (two shots I couldn’t even get reprinted or reframed since they were taken back in the days of film, and I wouldn’t begin to know where to search for negatives from almost 30 years ago).
OMG, this office update is getting personal. Despite all the evidence around me, from floor to ceiling, I am NOT that woman. I’m not the woman who still has a hand-me-down sofa because, well, I didn’t quite get around to buying a new one. I’m not the woman who has kept the overly sensual Georgia O’Keefe on the wall, even though I am the woman who still adores the friend who gave it to me.
First to the walls. The greens are going, and right now the contenders for replacement are supposed to be a rich, decadent, luxurious cream. Of course, it’s only a couple of paint numbers away from cream to beige, cream to yellow, cream to grey, cream to white. In fact, there are apparently an infinite number of ways the luxury I want to feel can be quantified, and come out wrong. I’ve got two two-foot swatches on my wall, next to the two tones of possible trim. Gee, this looks swell.
But I don’t want yellow, and I don’t want white. I want the cream of elegance, the crème fraiche of wall colors, the feel of the most luxurious Parisian chic, the color palette of Renoir when he captures luminescence in a gown, the brown/black/gold/creamy richness of a well-lived and well-enjoyed life.
I’m about to turn 50 in this office, and I’ve outgrown every aspect of it/me, save the Tiffany lamps and my own photos. If I’m still here when I turn 60, I don’t want to look around and cringe. I want the elegance to last.
Wish me luck. I’ve painstakingly looked at about 40 possible shades, and two on the walls. Neither is quite right. According to the numbers on the paint wheel, I’ve got about another 200 shades to examine. But I’m not driving off this lot until my backside feels exactly where it feels it belongs.