I Was Single Shamed in Brooklyn & All I Got Was This Lousy Yellow Kitchen

Being single has its upsides. No one eats my Tostitos when I’m not around, no one tells me not to online shop every morning and evening, and whether I choose to flush the toilet in the middle of the night is entirely up to me.

Still, there are some not-always-anticipated downsides.

This is the tale of how my apparently unacceptable singleness led to my kitchen looking like a Mexican fast food joint.

Not too long ago, I decided that I could no longer continue living in an apartment with a kitchen painted Hospital Ward Eggshell. But what would I paint it? I needed something that pair well with my freshly painted grayish-turquoise front hall—but I was stumped.

It was then that I found myself staring at a fellow straphanger on my morning commute—not because he was cute (he wasn’t), but because the tones of his turquoise sweater and yellowy khakis looked totally terrific together. And just like that, I knew: I was destined to have a yeller kitchen.

So I got up bright ‘n’ early and headed to the nearest paint supplier, about 15 minutes up the road.

When I got to the store, I stood there for what felt like ages, comparing the paper squares of practically every yellow the shop had to offer. Did I want a gold yellow? Pale yellow? Orange yellow? Sunny yellow? The options were overwhelming.

This isn’t the yellow Coldplay sang about.

I eventually narrowed it down to two samples and brought them up to the dude behind counter—not because he was a man, but because he was a paint man—and it seemed plausible that someone who works at a paint store should have some sort of legitimate authority on this type of matter.

“I have a small galley-style kitchen that I want to paint yellow, but I can’t decide which color would look best,” I told the employee. “Do you think you could help me decide?”

Which is when he said it—in the most condescending, dismissive, in-no-way flirtatious way possible: “Why don’t you go home and ask your boyfriend what he thinks?”

BAM. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said, shoving the samples into my bag. “I’m… gonna go.” And that was that: There was no way in hale that I was going back to that store to buy my yellow paint from Mr. Man and his opinion that I should be re-doing my kitchen according to my imaginary boyfriend’s specific tastes. Nope!

So I went home, tweeted about it, finally selected a soft, inviting color (Benjamin Moore’s ”Broadway Lights”—so fitting!), and researched other paint stores in my area.

The next weekend, I walked 20 minutes in the opposite direction to a little hardware store that also sold paint. But unfortunately, the range of colors was minimal, and Broadway Lights was nowhere in sight.

No worries, said the guy there. They could mix up one that matched sample. So I handed it over.

The bright view of the kitchen from my (very messy) bedroom.

Ten minutes later, I was out of there—gallon of yellow in hand. And as soon as I reached home,I got to work: First with the tape, then the roller, then the brush.

The paint looked bright—really bright—but by the time I’d finished, it was nighttime, and my kitchen’s overhead boob light doesn’t often cast the most flattering glow. So I went to sleep, looking forward to cooking eggs in my cheerful new kitchen the next morning.

But instead of cooking eggs, I awoke eight-ish hours later to find that my kitch better resembled an actual egg, over-cooked and dry, with a rough, flat finish. The sort of hue you might find on the exterior of a Mexican fast food restaurant. I held up my original color swatch to compare. They were nothing alike.

Try as I did to get used to the garish color over the next few weeks, it just wasn’t happening. And, seeing as my kitchen accounts for approximately one-third of my living space, I eventually succumbed to my distaste and made the trek to Home Depot for a replacement color.

After another evening spent taping up cabinets and balancing precariously on countertops, the room was once again transformed—this time, into a warm beige, or as I semi-affectionately refer to it, “Band-Aid.” Whatever—it’s no longer yellow YAYYYY!!!!!

My kitchen, currently. (Ignore the messy ceiling edge, please—I’m short!)

The moral of the story? Never let some sexist paint store employee make you feel like any less of the Independent Woman (parts 1 AND 2) you are. Stand up to him, or whatever ignoramus—for whatever reason—is bringing you down. Because in running away, you’re only hurting yourself, and of course, your whack-ass yellow kitchen.

And remember: You should never, EVER let your imaginary boyfriend choose your paint colors. Fin.

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