“I’m too old for this!”
For some reason the floor of our master bath perennially looks like a herd of elephants just tramped across it. I don’t know why. We rarely even wear shoes in there. It gets washed and waxed at least once a month. Yet the grimy crud that defies normal household cleaners asserts itself within hours of an all-day stripping job. The floors of our hall, kitchen, or other bath and a half aren't nearly so difficult.
But this time, as I trudge sweating and aching back to the kitchen lugging rag mop, bucket, industrial-strength stripping solution, scouring brush, broom, wax, sponge mop, and rubber gloves, I’m ready to admit it. I’m too old for this. I’m totally ready to throw in the towel. And all the other afore-mentioned items. It’s got me. I surrender.
Happily, the day did have its rewards. Husband cooked up the most incredible batch of fajitas I’ve ever tasted – and topped it off with a tall drink. I’m actually still a bit buzzed.
Even so, mellowed and rested though I may be, I declare unequivocally that I will never strip another floor. For whatever reason the bathroom floor looks like the path to a watering hole, I’ll move before I tackle it again.
I’m just going to admit it. I’m too old for this.