Making Peace with My Interior Decorator

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One of the hard truths I’ve learned about myself since growing up (at 30, I’m allowed to consider myself grown-up, right? Sometimes I don’t feel like it) is that I am a dreamer. And a planner. But I’m not a doer.

That magical juncture of inner vision and hand-eye coordination is NOT my happy place.

The ability to interpret written instructions did miss me. Remember those tests from elementary school where there were, like, 30 questions and the directions at the top of the page said: JUST WRITE YOUR NAME. DON’T ANSWER THE QUESTIONS. (??) The point was to see who would read the instructions before moving on. I filled out all 30 questions (correctly, I might add). I was the only member of my third grade class to fail that test.

I can’t read maps. Cardinal directions are the bane of my existence. My parents once signed me up for tennis lessons because I was so athletically inept they were genuinely concerned I might one day fail a walk-the-line test while sober. For this and other reasons (read: spending guilt), I have always shied away from home improvements. If it’s going to cost an arm-and-a-leg and, quite possibly, my arm or my leg then it just doesn’t seem worth it. This is how I wandered through the first 30 years of life without ever doing much in the way of power tools. And why I married the very able and willing son of a contractor. (Thank you, Jesus!)

But this past week, all that was about to change. (more…)

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