t 22, having just graduated from college, I moved in by myself for the first time. It was a nifty one-bedroom backhouse, with wheezing AC units and windows that cranked open to reveal spiderwebs and crushed beetles, and I loved it. Impatient to make it my own, I painted the living room in the first week. I polished off bottles of Chardonnay while I transformed the walls into an Easter egg of self-expression: one wall lavender, one sky blue, and the other two a color I insisted on calling “melon.” My friends loved it; my landlord doubled my deposit.

Painting my house became a kind of fever for me. I was mad with the ability to transform a space so simply, so cheaply. In the following weeks, I painted my bedroom, my bathroom, my closet. In what must have been a cry for help, I painted my wooden bagel cutter. It didn’t occur to me that this was insane, or at least bizarre. It was instant gratification. It was a kind of meditation. And, most important, it was mine.

For years, I had ceded my personal tastes to roommates with better art, louder opinions, and any furniture whatsoever. I was too shy, too accommodating to suggest my own flourishes. But living alone, there was no one else to please. I strung up Christmas lights in the kitchen and decorated the built-in library with mini-disco balls. When my friends came to visit, they said the same thing. “This place is so you.” (I wonder now: Was that a euphemism?)

Last week, I moved in by myself again. These days, I lack the zippy, all-hours fervor I had at 22. My feet hurt. My back aches. I stare at the boxes ripped and spilling onto the ground, at the lack of furniture, and I grunt. This is New York: Can’t I just hire someone to do this? But I knew that attitude would get me nowhere—actually, it would get me hungover with a mammoth credit card bill—and so I hiked over to the Williamsburg paint store and picked out two enthusiastic shades of crisp, minty green to liven up the library, currently a drab brown. I spent all day, climbing up and down the ladder, dabbing at my brow, humming with the gratification that only hard work can bring. At the end, I stepped back to admire my work.

Good God. I completely chose the wrong colors.

The walls were garish, nearly neon. Staring at them caused a kind of ice cream headache. What had I done?!?

I rinsed off my brushes, silent, and packed up for the day. I scrubbed the latex off my fingernails and elbows. I took a shower and went to bed, exhausted, frustrated, and promising myself I'd go back to the paint store and do exactly what I least wanted to do: Try again tomorrow.