Everyone has a safe place in their home. Maybe it’s under a pile of favorite blankets or scarfing down leftovers perched on your countertop. Lounging in a beige papasan chair or lying spread eagle in your hallway, doesn’t sound too shabby either.
My safe place is the bathroom. The ladies’ room. The commode. The unmentionable. Or, every 3-year-old’s favorite, the potty. My stark white walls bleed a yellow gunk, the ceiling is starting to strangely bubble, and I will never, ever figure out how to maximize the space under the sink because of the curvy pipe. But, I love it. The smallest room in my dwelling has held so many supportive and self-discovery moments over the years.
My earliest memory of escaping to my castle was at 8-years-old when my Mom grounded me by taking away my books. The lady knew how to hit where it hurt. She took away my paper lovers. My partner in crime at the time, Grandmom, hid my History of Rosa Parks under the towels, and I could sit down on the tub’s edge for a few minutes after I finished brushing my teeth to read about the activist.
From 15 to 17, I sat backwards on the toilet as girlfriends teased, straightened, dyed, curled, pinned my hair to manipulate it for high school dances. Then, at 19 with my heart freshly broken, I sobbed in my college dorm’s tub. The surface of the grungy, scummy surface cooled the back of my head and soaked through my shirt until I finally rolled to my side, asked for a pillow from my roommate and knew it was for the best.
21 brought on the worst internship of my life (the catering provider knew my name before the editorial staff did) and I had frequent lunches in the women’s futuristic bathroom. The clean, decorative lines and perfect clip-clop sounds of the devil women’s shoes made me realize I couldn’t hide from what made me uncomfortable and scared. As well as it would be really strange if I kept obviously disappearing for 30 minutes into the bathroom.
Now at 25, I shuck my coat as soon as I step into my apartment and walk a whopping 5 steps into my white washed wonderland to park my cold ass in front of the radiator. I love pressing my shoulders to the vents until I can’t take the heat anymore and forget about the day. I can feel my back unknot and my chest drop in relaxation.
It’s a room that has never failed to deliver a few moments of peace and unconditional quiet. And as the good universe knows, I love my quiet.