Thursday afternoon we met with representatives from a local construction company. We’re getting quotes for repairing rotting fascia and soffits and bad gutters. In the next year or so, it will be imperative that we do something to remedy those problems.
Since we were having them come out to the house, we also had them look at our 1960s bathroom. It’d be safer for me not to step over the sides of a tub, so priority uno would be a walk-in shower. But there are other issues to deal with if time and money allow, including a cracked toilet tank, a rusting sink, gross shower doors, and two lights and a bathroom fan all on the same switch. Oh, and the bathroom fan is so loud we had to yell our questions and replies.
“HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT THIS TILE?”
“THE WHAT?”
“THE TILE. DO YOU WANT TO KEEP IT?”
***
Yes, getting a walk-in shower for my own safety makes me feel old and infirm. But I’m finally coming around to accepting my fibromyalgia. It’s time to look at ways to make my life easier, not stubbornly insist that I should be able to do things like normal people.
“I have mobility issues,” I told them when trying to explain why I wanted something with the lowest sides possible. (“Mobility issues” is my new go-to for explaining to people that I can’t do jack shit.)
I’m glad I fessed up, though, because they had ideas. Ideas for grab bars and low-maintenance materials.
“Would a corner seat or something be helpful?”
My god, that’s brilliant. “OH! I would love to have a built-in bench at the back of the shower,” I said. While the woman drew it in on a piece of graph paper, I imagined ceremonially going all Office Space printer scene on my drugstore shower chair.
Last night I went to sleep dreaming of a new bathroom, knowing that even if we find the money to get it done it won’t happen until next construction season.
