I’m in the midst of a torrid love affair. Just please don’t tell my husband. He thinks I’m spending my time doing girly things, like shaving my legs and playing with makeup. Little does he know I’m spending time with my new crush… our recently updated bathroom.
Even before I fell in love with my now husband, my heart was sent aflutter by his 1940s era house. I’ve since sweetly dubbed it “The Bungalow” and have made it my mission to turn the once passable bachelor pad into a more modern and socially acceptable home. His wallet may not share my ultimate vision, but he’ll certainly thank me when it comes time to sell.
An important factor I must not fail to mention is that The Bungalow came ready-equipped with a whopping one bathroom. I will give you a second to catch your breath. In today’s society, the mere mention sends shockwaves through horrified ears. But then it all seems to make sense when I break into hives at the mere suggestion of an overnight houseguest.
Our one little bathroom served its purpose well through our courtship and first blissful year of marriage. But at some point, a woman just can’t take any more. There wasn’t much I could do about having to store my feminine products in the hall closet or having to blow dry my hair in the office. But those red walls! Those, I could remedy. And that popcorn ceiling; It would be the death of me yet.
Did you realize a small, damp, not very well ventilated bathroom with a popcorn ceiling will eventually start to… shed? When we were gifted a handheld vacuum as a wedding gift, you would’ve thought I was gifted a golden giraffe. Those little pellets of drywall got everywhere and now I had a fighting weapon. Almost every day, I would savor in the sweet victory of sucking up the pieces that had fallen to the floor. Only to then get out of the shower and realize there was some in my wet hair. Did you know water plus plaster makes a paste? You can only rock pasty hair to work so many times before the trend gets old and your boss schedules you an appointment with human resources to go over the personal hygiene guidelines.
A gallon of grey-green paint, a new light fixture, and some elbow grease by a burly, hairy contractor later, and I was happy to sit alone on the toilet and gaze at our work. For the first few days, I would rush home after work and run giddy and giggly straight for the bathroom light switch to illuminate my best project to date. I am a proud mother, er, homeowner, and I’m anxious to share it with anyone who will listen.
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