Steamed

get in front of him! It’s amazing that Boston drivers ever reach their destinations alive; this is a city where changing lanes means a near-fatal accident. And who needs a luxury SUV? A sedan is insufficient to cart kids from private school to private lessons to the ultraprivate mansions tucked away in Weston, Lincoln, and Wellesley Hills? But maybe I just had it in for expensive cars this morning.
    All dolled up for paint shopping, I left the car, grabbed the first massive shopping cart I saw, and wheeled my way into the hallowed halls of the do-it-yourself wonderland. And I would do it myself, I thought pathetically. All alone, with no companion to work with me, to reach the high spots on the walls, or to finish the inevitable third coat all my projects required. Don’t cry in the store! I ordered myself.
    Coming out into the world was beginning to seem like a mistake. Had I really thought that Noah would see me from his window and rush down the stairs to admit that he was a fool and that I was the right girl for him? No. I knew better. But I wanted someone to rush after me, someone to realize I was fall-in-love-get-married-have-children-live-happily-ever-after material. Yes, I was going to be a big hit with the radical feminists at social work school.
    I pushed the cart as fast as I could to the Oops paint section. My favorite part of this store was the steel cart with shelves full of returned cans of paint. Gallons were five dollars, quarts only a buck. I refused to pay full price for paint I was doomed to paint over the next month. On some days, the choices were so unappealing that it was easy to understand why buyers had brought the colors back. I always felt sorry for the returned cans, as if the unwanted colors had been hoping for a purpose, longing for the opportunity to change a room’s atmosphere. How hurtful to have an unappreciative buyer slop a sample patch on the wall and exclaim, “Ugh! What a revolting shade of violet!” And the poor paint would cry, “But you picked me! I was chosen! I was just what you wanted!” So I went on empathic rescue missions to the steel cart to save some of the unwanted. Hm... maybe I was cut out for social work after all.
    I looked at the lids of all the cans, each lid with a dab of the paint color and a small neon orange splotch sprayed on to indicate the “Oops” status of the reject. Lots of beiges, browns, and other earth colors today. Perfect. I felt suddenly inspired, and my spirits even lifted some. I would clear off all the bold, disarming hues and designs from my walls to create a solid, clean feel. Simplify, get back to basics, and tone it all down. Clean, organized living was just what I needed to begin the fall. I collected a rich brown, a few coffee shades, and a yellowish color with a sandy texture to it that I hoped would add a brushed-stone effect to the entryway. I gathered up brushes and a heap of plastic paint trays so I wouldn’t have to go to the basement and scrounge through piles of supplies that I hadn’t cleaned properly. Best to start fresh.
    I went to one of the self-checkout aisles and started to scan my items. The register’s computerized female voice began to scold me in loud tones for failing to bag my last scanned item. When I set a gallon of Navajo brown back down on the counter, the computer woman went into convulsions and began asking how I could have been so dumb. Didn’t I even know how to bag items? And what was wrong with me that I couldn’t stop myself from sleeping with a narcissistic pig like Noah? Well, not that last part, but she did rail on at me until a lanky male teen with a ponytail and an orange vest ran over to me to recite informative facts about the self-checkout process. He fixed my purchasing errors and finished the scanning for me.
    “And the money goes in here.” He pointed to the slot.
    By the time I got to the car, my cheeks were streaked with tears. I barely managed to slam the door before I broke into full-blown sobbing. I was so ashamed, not about the paint-buying incident, but about the embarrassment I felt at my latest romantic disaster. I let myself cry for the next twenty-five minutes, but had no tissues and had to blow my nose on a paper bag from Eagles’ Deli. I wiped my face with my hands and checked my appearance in the rearview mirror. The reflection sent me into a fresh bout of wailing. Why had I left my apartment, and how was I going to get back in looking like this? My pale skin was