I redid my powder room last fall. If it's possible to be in love with a bathroom, I am. Everything in it—the walls, the tile, the framed print, the mirror, the cabinet and sink/counter; even the guest towel holder and trashcan and toilet-brush-disguised-as-floor-art were carefully selected. And every time I go in there, even if it's just to put something under the counter or sweep the floor, I feel like saying "namaste." It's soothing, with a palette of beiges and a pale not-quite-seafoam blue. It makes me happy. And I'm not the only one who feels this way about my sweet little bathroom. It's a crowd-pleaser! Whoever uses it - male and female - always has something nice to say about it.
It's crazy to love this spot so much, but it's not really just a bathroom. It's my "control room." In the last 12 months, I've dealt with surgery and a difficult recovery, a nonagenarian father who is declining by the day, a stressful political environment and choppy personal and professional waters; so many things that were beyond my influence. This bathroom, this little gem, this island of calm, is a place that's always steady and pretty and quiet, even if my life isn't. It's something exceptional I made (though my contractor will likely think he deserves the credit); clear evidence—even on days I don't feel very talented—that I can plan and execute and create.
I feel about my bathroom the way I do when I have written something especially well: I can't make it any better. And just as I often go back to read something special that I've composed, I pop into this room whenever I get the chance. It's simply pee-utiful.
©2018 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie
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