“UGH,” I blurted, disgusted with my whole life or maybe just this kitchen chair with the worn grooves from the booster seat that rubbed it raw for years. That seat now holds an adult-sized butt at the dinner table, at least whenever she’s off work and home to join us.
I looked around the kitchen and my eyes landed on the counter, completely covered in dirty dishes, articles of clothing, and random school supplies. Didn’t anyone else in this family know how to put a dish in the dishwasher?
“Everything okay?” My husband eyed me warily.
“Everything is just … WORN, and this stupid counter is always messy,” I groaned.
My whole house feels worn and old. Sometimes I look around and feel frustration bubble up and I want a home makeover. My wood floors are groovy, and I don’t mean in a swinging sixties way, but they have literal grooves where we’ve scooted the couch a million times, and the finish is totally worn off by the leaky window in the front. Our couch is old and no amount of steam cleaning will bring the arms of it back to life. I rest my arm there and feel bare wood with just a thin film of microfiber covering it, the stuffing long gone.
Our incontinent dog has peed on every surface in the house, and the kitchen table, which we inherited from someone who inherited it from someone who found it on the side of the road, has been scrubbed down to the raw wood underneath. Years of Sharpie and Magic Marker replace the shiny finish of yore. The carpet came with the house, construction grade and light enough to show every pee sprinkle and nail polish fiasco. Raising kids and pets is hard on a house.
Our stovetop has a gouge in it that’ll draw blood if you don’t approach it with caution, and the handle of the microwave is just about to fall off. The sinks are stained and the showers are worse, and I want the HGTV people to fix it all. I walk around with that Natalie Imbruglia song in my head, except instead of “Torn,” it’s “Worn.” “I’m cold and I am shamed lying naked on the floor.” The groovy, worn floor.
I see the people around me get new things, new floors, new sofas, new bathroom remodels, and I feel jealous. I lust after their shiplaps and farmhouse sinks. Why can’t we have nice things, too?
Our house is getting worn, and I worry it’s a manifestation of my life. KEEP READING
