Well, it is done.  Except--I really don't like the color on the cabinets.  Really, really, really, don't like it.  So.  There are two choices.  Learn to live with them.  Or.  Repaint the door and drawer fronts.

If I were in my twenties, or thirties, I would grab a paint brush and get at it.  I've painted many a house before we moved in.  Once, I painted an entire house interior while I was two weeks away from delivering a baby.  Ceilings and all.  But that's not possible any more.  That girl no longer exists.

Looking back, I didn't appreciate the physical ability to work.  To execute the project.  I didn't ever think about not being able to do what I set out to do.  But now, I have to sit around and watch while others do what I wish I could do.  I don't bend very well any more.  And when I get down on the floor--which I would have to do to paint the cabinets--it takes forever to get back up.  I have to roll over on my knees and find something to hold onto to so I can pull up.  Ridiculous.

My mind doesn't stop thinking up things to do.  It's full of bees.  It's the body that has betrayed me.  And when I let my mind override my common sense, I end up so sore that I can't do anything.

That scripture in Ecclesiastes 9:10, "Whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might," still applies.  However, my "might" is mighty small.

In 11:9 the writer continues:  "Rejoice...in your youth; and let your heart cheer you in the days of your youth..."  I'm doing that now.  Rejoicing in my youth.  I'm glad I once had a youth.  I guess that's why they say that older people live in the past.  It's the only time they could do whatever they wanted to do.

Memories.  They bring me joy in the middle of being frustrated about the color of the paint.  Like Becky says, "It's just money."  The question is, "How much money to repaint."