Watching Paint Defrost
I sat in the drafty master bedroom of my partner’s farmhouse, 30 miles from nowhere, on a drop cloth in front of the bed I’d so carefully centered and covered in the middle of the room. There before me sat evidence of my critical error: two cold, hard, buckets of polar bear white paint.
Five days I had here with him at the new house before I made the long trip back to my own home, putting three months between me and my next opportunity to solve this problem. Five days was enough to accomplish a lot of work on the new house, but only for the most organized of people - not for those who forget that paint left in a garage goes rock solid in sub-freezing weather.
If I’d started the work when I meant to, on day two of my visit, perhaps it would have been enough time to notice the problem and let the paint thaw in time to accomplish the task of painting the bedroom. Instead, we chose to kick back and have fun; let the paint wait till we’d had our fill of playing in the snow and staring at the beautiful new TV we’d picked out just after my arrival. So here it was, day four, and not nearly enough time to let the paint thaw.
Deflated, I moved the buckets to a spot near the fire and decided to hope for the best. Maybe I was wrong about the physics of the situation. Maybe the warmth of the roaring blaze would fix my issues by that evening, leaving me time the next day to transform the bedroom exactly as we’d been dreaming I would since my last trip. Maybe we could run out to Home Depot - never mind that such a solution would be a three hour adventure at minimum and cost an extra few hundred dollars.
It was a rookie mistake made by a Texan with next-to-no snow experience and a man who’d spent the last two decades living without a garage. I texted the family chat and fessed up to my dad. “Guess the problem,” I captioned my photo of the buckets by the fire, and of course, Mr. Born-In-Northern-Michigan identified the fatal flaw at once. I spoke with my partner, we decided to wait for the thaw rather than spend the extra cash on new paint, and so I sat down with my knitting next to the fire and gave up, wondering why I felt so bummed out.
Now I understand: It was a little loss.
Minor things interrupt our trajectory all the time. These things on the surface don’t seem to be anything more than a change in routine or shift in our path. It takes a closer look to understand why it’s important to name my paint goof and other things like it a loss. A change in a corporate vacation policy throws us off - we don’t know the rules by heart anymore, so we feel a loss of control. A child’s bus route changes, and they no longer get to see the horses on their way to school - a loss of stability.
In the case of my paint, the surface level answer, and the one my partner was careful to assure me of, was, “No big deal. We’ll paint another time.” Sure, but will we? Or will he? Maybe the project will wait the three months or so until I return, or maybe it won’t.
Long distance means I don’t get to just pop over and paint the master when that paint thaws. Every room we’ve painted so far has upgraded the joy level in the whole house as we cover over the old nasty colors left by the previous owner. When this paint thaws, I’ll be back at work, far away from the ability to help. I don’t know if I’ll get to participate in the fun and sense of accomplishment that will come from transforming that room. We pay a long distance tax on things like this, just as every couple in a similar situation does. As I sat there knitting by the fire, I realized I had indeed lost something: a window of opportunity to feel just a little bit of normalcy.
It’s a little loss, sure, and one borne out of a circumstance of my own choosing, but the ouch is still there. Each time I double checked the paint cans that night, hoping to be wrong about how quickly a gallon of liquid thaws, I was reminded of the distance that is normal between us. I savored the movie we watched on the couch that night a little more than I would have otherwise.
Little losses can cause big feelings. Don’t be afraid to bring them out into the open within yourself or with a caring presence. Admitting there are deeper feelings behind simple events can help support our healing journey, especially when the big losses come.