Last night Ben sat me down and said something to the effect of, Honey -- I think you have a problem. Except that's not exactly what he said, because husbands who call their wives Honey are kinda icky. Anyway, how dare he criticize my obsessive need to endlessly repaint swatches on the wall, my 800 trips to return failed curtains, my seeming inability to make a single decision on my own?
How dare he care about my happiness?
I must admit to getting a little caught up in timetables, in the hormonal rush of nesting on the clock. And like some commenters noted yesterday, rushing has definitely brought on mistakes -- nothing catastrophic or terribly expensive yet, but mistakes nonetheless.
I also admit to enjoying decorating as a spectator sport. I LOVE showing you guys what I'm working on, but it's pretty grueling to turn something out once a week. Or even once a month.
Add to this the fact that even the pros disagree on decorating "rules" (have you seen House Beautiful's 101 Decorator Secrets? SO MANY of them directly contradict each other. Awesome!), and I find myself rudderless, aswim at sea. Too few parameters and too many variables.
I like order, dammit. Tidiness. Mathematical certainty, objective truth. That may seem a little weird for someone schooled in the arts, but I will remind you that photography is filled with mathematical formulae and sciencey stuff. I love the unbroken line of cause and effect. I struggle against the nihilism of anything goes.
Order. Symmetry. Complementary. Happy.
So I will busy myself with finding a way to work, because I do enjoy solving problems (and trust me -- my patchwork paint swatched bedroom of horror IS a problem), but forgive me if my updates come a little fewer and further between.
Things will get done, but perhaps progress will happen on a more geologic scale.
Also I am tired and huge and the baby is punching my cervix 24/7.
That'll slow a girl down, too.