The World According to Chuck

(same caveat, although the newspapers’ Web sites are coming along; soon. And you guys have read this sort of thing already, but anyway…)

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I remodeled a bathroom last fall, which came as a surprise to everyone. This is an afterthought sort of bathroom, hidden in a corner of the house, tiny and (for the most part) unnecessary. It wasn’t on my list of things to remodel.

Because, of course, no such list exists, nor would I allow it to. I’ve always suspected that remodeling around the house would involve bending and tools, neither of which comes naturally.

But I was in a mood, a little restless and maybe foolishly optimistic, so I started slowly and then just did it. It was perfect for a novice, too; small and unused except by me, ideal for a little home improvement experimentation, no one else would have cared or even noticed if one day I came out, covered with dust and sort of wet, and announced:

“NO ONE GO IN THERE. EVER.”

I mean. I’ve probably said that before, anyway.

As it turned out, there was a happy ending. Over a couple of weeks I transformed that little area into a workable bathroom, admired by all. My wife helped; in fact, we made it sort of a marriage project, which came in handy when we had toilet issues. I’m not comfortable with plumbing. It’s a thing.

And when my wife, who actually enjoys plumbing, was trying persuade that ancient toilet to do what toilets should, flush and stop flushing, she asked for my help in loosening a stubborn bolt. Bolt loosening I can do, usually, although this one was tough, and as I was negotiating with it I realized that this toilet was one of those portable ones. Apparently not attached by any seal or hardware to the floor.

I tested this theory and I was correct; I could move it to the other side of the bathroom, in fact, which seemed wrong. Even with my limited plumbing knowledge, I was pretty sure toilets were supposed to stay in one place, and not just sit over a hole in the floor. Still, that appeared to be the situation. And I’ll admit that I was tempted to access my inner 6-year-old who breaks a plate and shoves it under the couch; I really wanted to move that toilet back to where it belonged and not tell anyone.

But I did the grownup thing, actually installed a new toilet (easier than I thought), and now I have this nice bathroom. New floor, new paint, new toilet. I’m still the only one who uses it, but you never know. It’s ready, just in case.

And now I have my own shower, all mine, ready for showering at a moment’s notice. It comes equipped with a prehistoric shower massage thing, a shaving mirror, and all of my various beauty products, which are limited, of course. There’s some shampoo. Soap. A tube of some stuff that I’m supposed to scrub my face with to help with dry skin, which I sometimes do when I think about it. This is at the urging of my wife, my daughter and my doctor, all of whom are female people and seem to be concerned about my skin.

I might be playing uncomfortably with gender stereotypes here. Still, when I imagine visiting a male doctor and bringing this up, I always envision a different scenario:

ME: I have this really dry skin.

DOCTOR: Right. So, any chest pain?

My skin is really OK now. Don’t worry.

And on the door of this brand-new bathroom hangs my New Year’s resolution. You have to keep them somewhere.

A Christmas present, a nice pair of pants my wife bought me and which, as it turned out, don’t fit. She had this crazy idea of taking them back to the store for a larger size, but I sensed a new remodeling project just waiting.

It’s all my fault. A lazy fall, bathroom aside. Sort of gloomy and sedentary, helped by lots of sugar and fat. Mr. Chuck has gotten a little flabby. Nothing serious, but I really like those pants and suddenly I had inspiration. Maybe it would help if you pictured me standing at a podium, my voice ringing out in JFK fashion:

“Our goal…is to send one side of these slacks to meet the other side, and return it safely to Earth.”

It helps that these pants hang there, mocking me when I step out of the shower, smirking and sarcastic as I dry off. “You WISH,” they say.

So I’m all set. A new bathroom. A new year. A new goal and a new pair of pants, which I intend to be wearing by March, all snazzy and with moist skin. And with a slightly used toilet in the basement, awaiting a trip to the dump, a reminder that “remodel” isn’t a dirty word, change is healthy, and when it comes to plumbing some things are supposed to stay put.