Selecting bath mats slips her up

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You would think that a person who has managed, however inexplicably, to choose a mate, choose to parent two lovely albeit argumentative small humans, and choose to share with the world at large the most intimate details of her life (and those of numerous innocent bystanders), would have little trouble making a commitment to the little things in life.
You would be oh-so-wrong.
Who would ever imagine that my undoing, the very end to my self-styled reputation as a person who “gets things done” would be completely ruined by bath mats?
Yes, bath mats. Rugs. No better than highly evolved bath towels flung on the floor. In the end, they will, you mark my words, be the death of me.
Bath mats and beyond. You see, once I make a commitment to something or someone, I do it with my whole heart.
Not for me is the fleeting love affair with trends. I am an all-or-nothing girl. Once I lay down my life – or in this case, $12.99 – for a good bath mat, I expect it to serve me well for years and years and I will, in turn, repay the loyalty.
Thus for the last year, our bath mats – bleached and faded to a uniform “yuck” color – did cling to life. They were rarely absorbent and barely non-skid, but they soldiered on.
One day, however, I couldn’t avoid the truth any longer. They were crumbling underfoot and looked exactly the same freshly washed as they did AFTER the dog had taken on a game of mud tag with them. This is not, as you might imagine, a good sign in home decor.
That began my thankless task of procuring new bathroom rugs. I had no idea it would become such an all-consuming process.
White gone wrong. Granted, the bathroom in question is a terrifically difficult space to accessorize, being it is completely white – white tile, white walls, white fixtures.
I mean, seriously now, what could possibly go with WHITE? See what I mean? Insanity. Pure insanity. Plain and simple.
Shine. That is the only reason I chose the white, marbleized, ceramic tile for the upstairs bathroom in the first place. It is important when planning a major renovation to consider form as well as function.
Instead, with all the thought processes possessed by your average magpie or other simple creature attracted to shiny objects, I chose to feather my nest based entirely on sparkle, and tile is sparkly.
It is also slicker than wet ice.
Keep in mind that this flooring was chosen when I was expecting our first child. Ergo I knew, at least in theory, that I would be planning to raise small humans in this house and at least in some small part, from time to time, actually bathe them.
Furthermore, I was no more graceful than I am now, which isn’t saying much.
Thus, with full knowledge of my innate clumsiness and complete inability to reverse course on a decision once I have “paid good money for it,” we installed what we have come to know as “the tile of doom.”
Returning rugs. Now, in any half decent home store, hardware emporium, and probably the corner gas station, if you look just a little to the left of the Slurpee machine, there is an almost eye-popping variety of home decor, including rugs, to choose from.
I know this because I have purchased and returned virtually ALL of them.
We have enjoyed passing flirtation and/or brief visitations by red rugs, brown rugs, green rugs and a particularly violent and frightening shade of aqua that may have done permanent retinal damage to at least two family members.
Worse, I have suffered the slings and arrows of an endlessly entertaining spouse who delights in teasing me about my obsessive rug-love gone bad.
Is it a one-night stand to purchase rugs, toss them down, grow to hate them mere minutes later and return them all within 24 hours?
Is it considered stalking to dog-ear an overpriced catalog and visit “the rug of my dreams” each morning over coffee, knowing full well I’ll never actually order the thing?
Madness, mayhem, towels. I simply can’t get anyone to understand that when it comes to making a commitment to something as important as, say, bathroom rugs, there really is madness and mayhem under foot.
Until then, we can just stand on towels. We won’t admit this is caused by my complete inability to make a commitment to a simple bathroom accessory. Rather, we’ll simply attribute it to our rugged – or in this case rugless – individualism.
(Kymberly Foster Seabolt is a mwf desperately seeking bath mats for a long-term relationship. She welcomes comments c/o kfs@epohi.com; P.O. Box 38, Salem, OH 44460; or http://userweb.epohi.com/~kseabolt.)

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Warm, witty and just a wee bit warped, Kymberly Foster Seabolt is a native of Kent, Ohio, who survived childhood exposure to disco and grew up to marry and move to the country. Her column weaves her special brand of humor with poignant, entertaining, and honest portrayals of parenting, marriage, and real life. She currently lives in northeastern Ohio with her husband, two children, two dogs, two cats, and numerous dust bunnies who wish to remain nameless.

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