if paint choices were a metaphor (no, let's not go there)

The test blotches up on my kitchen wall have been there long enough (a few weeks) that I've gotten used to them well enough and have almost forgotten that I'm supposed to be making a final decision. I've always wanted an orange kitchen. It seems like a color for being warm and cozy. A color for being hungry and eating good things. So why the green? It took us long enough to find the right shade of orange, because as nice as the fellow at Sherwin Williams might be, he can't color match to my brain. I've never had such a hard time picking a paint color before. We've gone through several shades that were just all wrong, too pale, too salmony, too close to the birch woodwork. Last weekend, I gave up on Orange and switched to Green, chose the right shade the first try and loved it straight away. Or maybe I didn't give up entirely, I bought one last desperate test quart in a beguiling Marquis Orange and as soon as I opened the lid, even before any paint was slapped on the wall, I knew it was the right color, the exact deep warm orange I see when I close my eyes. Perfect. But the green. It's nice, too. So we deliberated, the husband and I (which, I must admit looked a little like him watching my mouth to see which one I'm leaning toward right then and then him quickly agreeing) and I finally sent him back to the paint store for a full gallon of the green. It's a shade we can get in the Harmony no v.o.c. line (the orange is too intense for that), it approximates the touch of green in the original formica counters (white counters with boomerangy blobs in pink and blue and green), it's a darn happy color. I was pleased with our decision. And no sooner had he driven away than I changed my mind. I'm like that (which is good times enough with regard to little things like paint, imagine translating such a charming quirk to big ones like houses!). I called his cell phone. He did not answer. He bought the green paint. He came home. The full can sat in the kitchen and I said not a word of my change of heart. And then next morning, last Sunday, the first thing he said to me when he woke up and headed into start coffee was, "I think we chose the wrong color." So. If the man with ambiguous interior design opinions thinks we should go with orange, who am I to say otherwise? I've been talking myself into the green all week, citing financial prudence (we already bought a gallon of it, after all) and expediency. The truth is that the green would probably flow better to the pinkish grayish soapstone fireplace in the other room (the only permanent color fixture in the house, save for any woodwork, the rest of the walls are a bland putty color though they look forward to being something else), but oh! the orange! It's been a bit of a battle between my inner pragmatic majority and my smaller, but louder, frivolous, whimsical side this week but I insist on painting the whole room tomorrow. Which means I must decide for sure tonight. Is this riveting or what?