Excitement, Anticipation, Chaos, & Aimless Worry

If you can't guess the subject of this essay from the title I'll clear it up for you. We're having our Master Bathroom remodeled. This is not for the faint of heart or the rigidly Obsessive of Compulsive.

Note that they left my toilet for me the first night.
The remodel of the bathroom, any bathroom is a recognized crisis point in modern life. It's frequently mentioned in psychiatric journals as one of the major precipitating events leading to psychotic breaks and acute personality disintegration episodes. In fact, it's the third in line behind being taken as a hostage and undergoing mock executions and Black Friday Sales.

Above all, it's very self-destructive to commit to a bathroom remodel after the age of 45. Psychological resilience drops off significantly in the mid-forties and by the mid-fifties even rearranging living room furniture can quickly disintegrate into a crisis requiring psychoactive medications and SWAT teams.

With a kitchen remodel, you can always get in the car and dine out or pick up take-out, but during a bath remodel, well after the second visit to the Texaco station, the bathroom key becomes harder to get and for those of us that can use our urinary frequency in place of an heirloom clock, nocturnal alternatives are few. It clearly points out the wisdom of the ancient chamber-pot over relying on fancy indoor plumbing alternatives. O temporas, O mores.

Still, now in my 65th year of living, I am coping with the inconvenience in order to reach that far-off, shining land of, at least the late 20th century, in which I will have a walk-in shower, a new vanity with under-mounted sink, plenty of lights, outlets (including USB) and get this, four strategically placed grab-bars. The only thing missing is a call light with panic button. We'll get there, don't worry.

So we're into the second day of the work. Massive progress is happening and my anxiety is still under control thanks to beta-blockers and meditation, but I wouldn't want to push it any farther than this. Oh, and the man is coming to pump the septic tank this afternoon. Better him, etc.

But, because of my age and inherent agoraphobic OCD spectrum disorder, I'm rapidly developing new tics and pointless fretting, hearing of voices and a feeling of impending embarrassment. I can see the opening of the drain from here.

I will post updates with pictures for as long as I last.

Tell everyone back on the farm that I love them and am thinking about them. Please send your happy thoughts.

More later,


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