|Here's a shot of the old light. Solid, but not very exciting.|
I jumped on the sale and ordered the light—of course making sure Mr. W was on board with it before I sealed the deal. Thankfully he was, and a few days later this eruption of chrome-covered disco goodness arrived on our doorstep.
Mr. W went to work hanging and wiring it and once it was done, we turned it on to admire its brilliance.
"It's kind of...loud," he said, eyeing it skeptically.
"It's not—it's beautiful," I countered. "It makes me want to sing the Katy Perry firework song. Lampy you're a fiiiirrework!"
Mr. W wasn't convinced.
A little later, the real crux of the issue occurred to me: I was the new chandelier and Mr. W was the old one.
Mr. W is practical, sleek, sort of timeless, a bit sharp around the edges. He's solid. Maybe even a smidge square. But lights up a room without screaming "Look At Me!" first.
Then there's me... Kind of explosive, limbs often flailing in every direction, a style that most certainly is not for everyone. The opposite of subtle and refined.
Surely if Mr. W could learn to love me, he could learn to love the new light fixture. Surely he could come to appreciate the graphic flowery pattern it casts on the ceiling when it's lit. Surely he would soon feel the urge to dance under it to "Stayin' Alive" and "Boogie Shoes."
I'm sorry to report that he has not joined me for any dining room disco parties, but I do think he's gotten used to the lamp.
And I believe that with some persuasion, Friday nights doing the electric slide under it are just a few short months away.