As we passed through adolescence into adulthood, our advanced methods of identifying color expanded to include simple adjectives in front of the designated color such as dark and light. To the male species, these variations adequately explained the subtle differences of each color while continuing to hold our fervent belief in the basic colors of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, black, purple, and white. I held true to this traditional male labeling system even though my wife’s color palette was far more advanced.

It started innocuously enough. I was going to the home improvement store to pick up some mulch when she asked me to pick out a few paint swatches. Being the good husband, I asked her what colors she wanted. “Something in the yellow family.” She replied.

My natural response amused her. “Dark or light yellow.”

“Don’t be silly. Get a few yellow swatches and bring them home. In fact, why don’t you get some ecru as well?”

I scanned my brain and came up empty. Either Crayola wasn’t that advanced when I was young or it was one of those crayons that you gave to the dog to eat. “Ecru?”

Her facial expression delivered her disgust. “Hello. Ecru is brown.”

I knew I was overmatched so I took my lumps and went to the car. I gathered my mulch and almost forgot about the paint swatches. I swung the cart in reverse and headed over to the stands containing the color palettes. There were fifteen of them. I scratched my head because the math didn’t add up. There were way more than one hundred twenty-eight colors in front of me. Still, I figured I would just pick out what I wanted and go back home.

Her voice rang out in my head. “Ecru!” Immediately I was drawn to the brown palettes so I grabbed two swatches. Then I made the mistake of looking at the names of the colors. How could Dapper Tan and Sandstorm be colors? We were either going to paint our house like a neatly dressed man or a desert storm. The connotation of both names led me to drop the swatches back into their slots. I didn’t want my house to be well dressed nor did I want it to look like it belonged in the desert.

Shaking my head and shrugging my shoulders, I moved down the aisle thinking someone had gotten a little crazy such as when Crayola tried to pass off a color called magenta. I must have moved into the advanced section because now the sample palettes had colors with two names. There was burnt ember, ripe eggplant, and Durango sands. Now the first two, I was able to decipher as dark orange and dark purple but Durango sands lost me. You see I’ve been to Durango, Colorado and it’s a mountain town. It happens to be very beautiful but from what I can remember, I don’t think I ever saw a beach or a desert so where does one derive Durango sands?

Suddenly I found myself wishing that my wife had accompanied me on this trip. She would know how to navigate through colors called muslin and polenta. I staggered like a boxer taking too many body blows, but my resolve remained. I decided I needed to change aisles in the hopes I would still be able to find understandable versions of basic colors. When I turned the corner to the next aisle, the first swatch I looked at was called bone. Bone? You have got to be kidding me! I couldn’t put the swatch back on the shelf quick enough. I diverted my gaze to other palettes and was overwhelmed by cherry apple, wispy cloud, gunmetal, and camel. Logic entered the argument long enough to debate what I was seeing. Wispy cloud is an atmospheric condition and not a color to paint your house and is it a cherry or is it an apple?

I ran my hands through my hair comparing myself to Indiana Jones and my search for the holy pail. I was losing focus and I needed help. I needed the trusty store assistant who could surely point me to the paint section where they listed real colors for the non-esoteric. I turned to the front of the store refusing to glance in either direction afraid of what other colors I might see. I had almost escaped but my peripheral vision condemned me. Like the accident you can’t help but look towards, my eyes focused on a section long enough for me to espy colors named hyacinth, lavender explosion, hunter green, and sunset followed by refreshing breeze, soft clay, and azure tide. Information overload! I wanted to scream aloud and let everyone know there is no such color called brushed sandstone. Sandstone is a rock, not a paint color!

Like a roller coaster falling down the steepest hill, my imagination was out of control and names of colors that couldn’t exist started rampaging through my brain. Chalky melon, burnt pizza crust, and sticky gum were followed by glazed doughnut, bird droppings, and greasy dish soap. Unable to control these thoughts, my head overflowed with non-existent colors. Moldy bread, fifteen-day-old milk, and giant unwanted weed preceded blood blister, charcoal dust, and petrified tree.

I was starting to hyperventilate afraid I was going to collapse in the store. What used to be a safe haven for men and a place where they could grunt at each other with no awkward staring was now no longer pure. I had to get out. In order to get momentum, I pushed away a poor lady who was holding a can of paint called frostbite sea mist and was fifty yards from the door. I apologized as I stumbled past her not knowing if I was going to make it when one paint can caught my gaze. At once, I smiled contentedly while my breathing and heart rate instantly returned to normal. There it was. The can of paint I was looking for. I sighed heavily grasping tightly to the comfort it provided. Tears flowed from my eyes when I grabbed the precious can off of the display like a contented parent grabbing the last action figure off of the shelf. I clutched the can close to my body giving it an embrace like it was a child. Normalcy did exist. I grabbed two containers and whisked myself to the checkout counter before someone re-labeled the cans in my hands. The clerk rang me up and I hurried to my car in the fear that someone was going do his or her best to take back the buried treasure I had found. After making it home safely, I secreted the cans from everyone’s view until it was time to paint.

It took me three weeks but when the job was finished, I felt an immense sense of relief knowing I had accomplished a Herculean task. I stood in the room admiring my handiwork when my wife came out to look at the finished project.

“What do you think, honey?”

She smirked before she answered. “I think the room would have looked a lot better with something from the yellow or brown family.”

“I know, honey. I know. But this really turned out nice.”

She eyed the room up and down carefully studying how the paint went with all of her furnishings. “You know what. I think you’re right. White paint does look good in this room.”

Ease and contentment fell over me like liquid chocolate being drizzled over ice cream. “Yes, it does honey.”

She continued staring at the room. She placed her finger on her lips and made a decision that scared me to death. “You’re pretty good at this. How about we paint the living room next? You can go pick out the color. I’m thinking of something in the green family like... maybe loden.”

I looked her straight in her big, beautiful blue eyes and said the only words that a man in this situation could say. “I love you, dear. I’ll paint the room in whatever color you choose.”