Last weekend, Spouse and I took on one of those projects that are a true test for many relationships: we painted the kitchen.

I never fully appreciated why painting is my husband’s least-favorite house project. He would sooner replace the roof than have to paint a room, which I now completely understand.

It took no less than three trips to Home Depot to search, buy, return and search some more for everything we needed. I was allowed to go twice on my own – that’s how desperate the situation was. Have I mentioned how Spouse lives for Home Depot outings that he insists on dragging me through while I whine every step of the way?

Don’t tell you-know-who, but I found myself somewhat enjoying being let loose on my own among the 73 aisles of home improvement items. It wasn’t that kid-ina candy-store euphoria Spouse experiences, but at least I wasn’t hyperventilating or whining, except when it came to choosing a paint color. I swear, I got lightheaded studying the differences in the half dozen blue paint chips in my hands.

Because we already have two rooms in shades of blue, Spouse did start to show some concern that our house might start to resemble an island view without the beach house or sand, or possibly the pool at the YMCA. I assured him that when we paint the living room (a proclamation that caused him to visibly wince), it would not be in any shade of blue, but rather sand or possibly taupe (as if I have any idea what the difference is between those two).

When I was a kid, we had dark blue and light blue crayons. This was not a difficult decision – you either wanted to color with the dark crayon or the light crayon. I could live with that. The older I got, the more I seem to recall Crayola slipping in a few different shades, but I was faithful to the originals. No Cerulean for me, no-sir-ee.

Whose idea was it to make us have to choose from hundreds of shades? And by the way, did you know that some shades have more than one name? What the heck? For the first 45 minutes in Home Depot, I stood in front of various racks of paint samples studying shades, pressing them up against the kitchen curtain I had taken with me for comparison. I was hoping for a sudden revelation where the perfect paint chip would throw itself at me.

That didn’t happen, so I finally narrowed it down to three shades of blue and asked the opinion of another customer who seemed knowledgeable as she casually tossed painting paraphernalia in her cart. She pointed to her choice. I thanked her, strode away and timidly trusted my own instinct with another shade.

After an hour and a half, I returned home exhausted but satisfied with a gallon of sea mist, or misty sea… something like that. Maybe it’s pool blue – I don’t know – I just have to show them a copy of the UPC code to get the same thing if I need it.

I have a newfound respect for painters and a clearer understanding of my partnerin crime’s fear of the word “paint,” but it was still fun and rewarding to see the transformation from worn-out white to whatever-it-is blue. I had made the right decision on color.

After barely stepping outside for fresh air the whole Labor Day weekend except for the Home Depot runs, I announced to Spouse that we deserved ice cream. We scraped the paint off our fingers and went to a favorite ice cream stand, where I was geared up to request my favorite flavors. I stepped up to the counter and ordered two different flavor scoops in a cone.

“Waffle cone or regular?”

After serious consideration, I went with waffle. Thankfully, their waffle cones don’t come in different colors. — Janine Talbot is adjusting to her empty nest in southern Maine with her spouse of 32 years and two and a half cats. She can be reached at janinevtalbot@gmail.com.