My mantra for 2019: “Live life with the spirit of adventure.” During my annual November meeting with my numerologist, she told me the upcoming year’s energy would be conducive to remodeling/redecorating if I wanted. I wanted.

Adventuresome Me yearns to sell everything and trail a tiny home from coast to coast. Practical me knows I like my roots. It makes sense to update home base and allow the Universe to guide from there. Currently, both my kitchen and master bath are out of commission; Oh! and in all the excitement, we tore out a wall between the dining room and sitting area in our family room which precipitated a major floor repair and a big, fat mess!

I swear I’m not writing to whine about drywall dust, having to sleep upstairs, eating too much carry-out, or NEVER being alone in my own home. Just want to share a life lesson. That’s what I do here.

It’s been my theory that if there were a Hell and I went there, I’d be assigned the task of making decisions all day. Guess what you do when you’re the acting assistant contractor on a remodel in your own home?

Tweak the layout? Or are things good as they are? Cabinets: door style and finish, glass or no glass, depth, catalogues of amenities, blah, blah, blah. And then there’s the pulls and knobs. Will gray counter tops outdate soon? Hours of research; days of weighing choices. Dreaming of being lost in a haunted lighting store and waking up in a sweat at 3:00 A.M. Yes. I really want to paint the whole house white. Realizing your furniture just, won’t, work anymore. Agony.

It all had me wondering why I make a federal case over backsplash tile and faucets. I’ve had enough therapy to know answers lie within our history. I think I’ve found it. It was an Easter in the 1960’s. Easter was a big deal for my two sisters and me. New dress, shoes, lacy socks, hat, gloves, and even a purse to match our shoes. This was a one-time-a-year-thing and the shoes we got for Easter were our Sunday shoes for the entire calendar year. Trust me, there was no fudging on this.

As it happened during our annual spring trek to L.S. Ayres in downtown Indianapolis, I fell in love with a bright yellow dress and a little pair of shiny, yellow patent leathers to match! I begged. I pleaded. I vowed I understood what this decision meant for my future. I could see nothing but sunshine in those shoes.

But by Christmas, my lovely yellow patent leather shoes were marred with heavy, black scuff marks. Some of the yellow had chipped off in the creases left by the bend at my toes. The Vaseline my mom used to shine them no longer worked. They didn’t match a single winter dress I owned. But you know what? My mom stood by her word. Those were my Sunday shoes until the following Easter. Childhood trauma.

Is it the indelible image of those nasty shoes that render me frozen with fear each time I make a decision about a major purchase? Is it all my mother’s fault I lost sleep over drawer pulls? Why can’t I enjoy the freedom of knowing my decisions aren’t indelible? Why can’t all these choices amount to part of the adventure? I can’t say. But I can say that in connection with this project, I’ve begun to process another childhood experience and its potential effect on me. I’ve taken a moment to look within. I’ve considered. I’m taking that as a win.