My footsteps echoed off the bare floors. There were holes in the hollows of the two-story ceiling where light fixtures had yet to be hung. Across the room, I met my reflection in one of the three wide windows. We needed curtains, couches, carpets; the prospect filled me with fear. This was a massive undertaking for an experienced designer let alone for someone with my decorating DNA. I sat on the floor and took a sip of soda. I could start small, say a guest room or den. I needed to find a pastime other than Brett before I drove us both crazy. It wouldn’t be a hobby like knitting or collecting Fiesta-ware, but something to keep me busy. And sooner or later, a job would come along and give me an excuse to quit. Until then, I had nothing better to do.

With the zeal of a cub reporter on my first assignment, I threw myself into my hobby. I pored over magazines and spent a fortune on decorating and design books, examining photographs of interiors where stripes, plaids, and flowers all magically coexisted. It was so random. I drove downtown to the fabric district, returning with hundreds of swatches, laying them side by side until I thought I had found the right combination. But each time I resolved to pick a motif, I would flashback to the home I grew up in with the mismatched colors and patterns. I would remember the look of determination on my mother’s face, and our embarrassment at her results.

And that orange and yellow modular couch.

Brett was halfway through shooting, our house was still empty, and I was pulling my hair out, literally strand by strand, leaving a dime-sized bald spot on one side of my head. My hobby was keeping me busy all right, but now I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I decided to lower my sights and start shopping for small items like lamps, area rugs, or bathroom accessories. Still, whenever I went to make a purchase, I became paralyzed and left empty-handed.

Late one hot and smoggy afternoon after another fruitless day, I found myself sodden and weary, standing on Robertson Boulevard in front of yet another furniture showroom. I was exhausted and hungry. I needed to pee. The nearest public restroom was in the Ralph’s, a good ten blocks away. I prayed the salesperson would recognize me and let me use the bathroom.

Inside, I was met by an officious woman in her forties.

“Restroom?” I asked meekly.

“Certainly, Ms. Gold. Right this way.”

I’d made up my mind. When Brett came home from the studio tonight, I would tender my resignation. He could either relent and hire a decorator or continue living in a frat house.

I returned from the bathroom, gingerly walking on blistered feet, and found the same saleswoman in a corner of the showroom.

“Thank you,” I said, handing her the restroom key.

“My pleasure.”