I stood at the bathroom sink this morning, washing my face and brushing my teeth. I saw it with new eyes (I’ve been displaced from my bedroom and my usual home habitat for two weeks owing to a knee surgery, my room being on the upper level of my home).

I saw tiny cracks on the ceramic. Rivulets merging into rivers.

Wrinkles. Signs of age.

In a flash, I realised how distasteful the thought of decorating was to me today. In the process of recovering from surgery and inadvertently contemplate age and ageing, I found great comfort in those cracks I saw this morning. We’ve been living in this house for over 7 years now. We retrofitted the poorly designed interiors with love and care before we moved in, not focusing on the fancy but really prioritising comfort. And these objects that have lived with us, toilet fixtures and walls, built-in cupboards and floor boards, have served us well. Been not spectators, but participants, in our daily experiences. Gah! I’m being sentimental about bathroom fixtures now?

And the my mind rambled a bit more…..

Is the growing obsession with redecorating our homes, expecting them to be perfect all the time, a way of warding off the insecurity that comes with ageing? Especially for us, the middle age people, all scrunched between 30 and 50, seeking our identities still and staking a place for ourselves in the world, are we loathe to accept age in not just us, but in everything around us too?

I’m blogging this before I over-analyse because I think it’s an interesting train of thought! Of course, redecorating will wash over me one of these days and a giant gush of impulsive and glorious creativity will drown me. Until then, I’m going to enjoy the tiny cracks and the stained walls as the wonderful signs of a busy and ordinary home!