Face it, women have a peculiar affinity for a certain room in the house. And, I’m here to tell you why: sanctuary. Imagine, if you will, a bustling household on a typical morning. People teeming with questions and definitive statements, such as, “Is there any granola left? Where are my library books? Who took my phone charger? I don’t have time to eat. I can’t find my wallet!” Then contemplate for a moment a quiet place where you can lock the door, turn on the taps, and in all good conscience, as the conversation continues you can yell out (not unkindly) – “Can’t hear you! The water’s running!” You know, I should learn how to say that in multiple languages.
Before I started this blog and in the midst of completing a first novel I remodeled a bath room. It was in a studio, unattached to the house, but I was obsessive in my hunt for period looking tile and fixtures. I wanted a bath to immerse and soak in and lovely silk wrapped light bulbs glowing in lamps from the nineteen-twenties. Say it with me, my friends: that’s a bit much.
In some misty future I envisioned, not a room of my own, not a place where I would write, not an office, not a guest room, not a creative space – but a place I could tweeze my eyebrows undisturbed. Hey. I never claimed to be deep.
